The Grey Tales
by Genespira Cold
Summary: The Grey Wardens are an ancient order sworn to end the threat of Darkspawn across Thedas.  This is the story of their founding, as told by Duncan to Alistair on a chilly evening in front of the campfire. A tale by GeneDark, IceyCold, & Shakespira.
1. Chapter 1

**The Grey Tales **

A Story Told By: Gene Dark, Icey Cold, & Shakespira

Beta'd By: Enaid Aderyn

Illustrated by: Sinvraal

_The Grey Wardens are warriors of legend, an ancient order that is sworn to end the threat of Darkspawn across Thedas. Yet even as every Grey Warden has their origin, so too do the Grey Wardens as a whole. This is the story of the founding of the Grey Wardens, of Brun the First and Freya the Second, and those who were there to pledge themselves at Weisshaupt._

Bioware owns Dragon Age and all associated content. We three just enjoy playing in their sandbox and making sense of the world they've given us.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Night fell across the grove where the three Grey Wardens were making camp. They had made good time since leaving Montsimmard, and would continue making good time in the morning as they made their way to Jader. The place where they had stopped to make camp was quiet, and a mile's walk north of the road. They would attract no attention in the glen from predators of both the two and four legged kind, though even should bandits or bears befall them as they slept, they would have been hard pressed to take what little the three Grey Wardens carried, for few fight better under pressure than Grey Wardens.

The two senior Wardens were busy walking the perimeter around their camp, while the younger Warden was on his hands and knees in the dirt, digging out a pit for the fire. The excitement and freshness of youth was in his face, and he hummed with a pleasant if not nervous energy. He had been a Grey Warden for less than a week, but he was already as devoted to their cause as one of the older men walking in the shadows around him. The older Grey Wardens had received his questions about the Grey Wardens with some amusement, and felt refreshed by his enthusiasm.

"Alistair," said one of the older Grey Wardens, calling out to the younger man from the darkness of the woods, "make sure the kindling is dry this time."

"Oh, very funny, Riordan," Alistair replied back, his fingers deep in dirt. "It was only the one time. It won't happen again."

"And it was a very cold night!" Riordan replied back. "Duncan's beard nearly froze off."

"As did yours," added Duncan from the other side of the grove, the cool night air having brought the conversation to him. "But if you are so concerned for my beard, Riordan, perhaps you can assist Alistair in finding kindling."

"No, really," Alistair brushed his fingers against his leather pants and stood, "I can do it." Alistair had been teased by the swarthy Riordan all day for finding wet kindling the night before. They had survived a cold, rainy night huddled under their cloaks in the darkness, and Alistair had been thoroughly miserable the next morning. And he had only been more miserable with Riordan's ribbing during the march. Riordan was not as grim a man as Duncan, though when he had first met Riordan at his Joining, he had seemed to be carved from solid stone. But then Alistair was finding that below their cold, grey facades, most Grey Wardens were actually quite warm, if not humorous. Life and circumstance mocked the Grey Wardens, and the Grey Wardens simply laughed.

Alistair darted into the woods quickly, hearing Riordan's good natured laughter follow him through the leaves. Stooping low to the ground, Alistair squinted in the remaining light for twigs and brush suitable for burning. By the time he was done, he had collected an armful of leaves, twigs, and other bracken that looked and felt suitably dry. Riordan and Duncan were standing over his fire pit when he returned, their leather and mail clad arms covering their chests as they peered into the pit critically. Alistair knew it was a ruse – Duncan was not very good at hiding his amusement, and the man's lips were having trouble staying in an even line. Riordan, however, was shaking his head and tsking.

"Alistair," Riordan said gravely, "if we are all set alight tonight, I hold you responsible."

Alistair only grinned in reply and dumped the fruits of his labor at the Orlesian's feet. "Dry! You see?"

Riordan tapped the kindling with his boot. "It will not burn on its own."

"Is this some part of the Joining you didn't tell me about?" Alistair turned his eyes to Duncan.

"No," Duncan shook his head and a lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead. "I simply trust you with a fire more than I do Riordan." His eyes glimmered with mirth.

Riordan clucked in mock-offense and threw his hands in the air. "Maker, I hope your beard really does freeze off, my friend."

Duncan chuckled and clapped his Grey Warden brother on the shoulder. He squeezed the leather pauldron gently before crouching down across from Alistair and helping him set the kindling ablaze. When at last the fire was lit and the shadows pushed back to the edges of the grove, the Grey Wardens let themselves sit together and talk. The wind was chilly and clawed at their cheeks and noses, but their spirits were high and the sky above them was clear and bright with stars. The air smelt like sap and pine, but soon gave way to the smell of roasting rabbit and wine as Riordan skinned, skewered, and cooked the three rabbits he'd shot with his bow earlier that day.

Alistair sat at the edge of his bedroll with his pack between his knees. He rifled around it for some of the hardtack he'd been given by the quartermaster before their march to Jader. This he quickly broke in two and held below the cooking rabbits, capturing the fat and juices that dripped from the meat. He flashed Duncan a cheeky smile before taking a large bite out of the dripping covered biscuit, and then squawked in delight when Duncan handed him two more biscuits.

"Not for you," Duncan smiled, "for us." He looked to Riordan. Both he and Riordan had their hands occupied holding the rabbit skewers into the flames.

Alistair wolfed down the rest of his hardtack and then held first Duncan's, then Riordan's, hardtack under the rabbits. When both men said their tack was sufficiently flavored, Alistair placed the two halves on each of their knees. Duncan had one free hand, and so was able to eat his as he watched the rabbits cook. Riordan, on the other hand, suffered with only the sight and smell of the food, until Alistair claimed one of the skewers, declaring he could wait no longer and needed to eat _now._ Whoever had said that hunger was the greatest seasoning did not know the truth of their statement, for neither Grey Warden could remember having tasted rabbit so delicious. Though a bit too rare for Alistair's liking, the meat was thick, gamey, and uniquely creamy.

The three replete Grey Wardens settled back around the campfire, Riordan and Alistair lying on their backs and staring at the stars while Duncan sat straight on watch. The silence between them was amiable, and Alistair closed his eyes and smiled in contentment. An owl was hooting in the distance, and a wolf howled in the darkness, but the campfire was warm and so were Alistair's cheeks. Riordan felt the same way, for he let out a pleased sigh.

"The only thing we're missing," the Orlesian said, "is a good story."

"That's right!" Alistair agreed, turning on his side to stare at the other two men. "We're missing a story."

"Duncan," Riordan smirked, "my bearded friend, if you would…?"

"I have no stories worth hearing," Duncan replied evenly, his eyes on the treeline. "And if I did, I would not tell them very well."

"Please, Duncan?" Alistair sent his mentor a wide smile, doing everything short of batting his eyelashes. "Pleeeeeaaassse? Just one story?"

Duncan groaned. "I…oh…very well. But if I bore you in the telling, I don't want to know."

"Great!" Alistair sat up and rested his elbows on his knees facing Duncan. "I won't be bored."

"I might be," Riordan drawled in a teasing voice.

"At least I can please one of you then." Duncan sighed and cleared his throat. "Alistair," he turned to the young Grey Warden, "did you ever learn about the founding of the Grey Wardens?"

Alistair shook his head. "No."

"Would you like to hear about it?"

The shaking turned into bobbing. "Yes."

Duncan chuckled. "Your enthusiasm does you credit." Leaning forward to poke at the fire with a long stick, Duncan stared deeply into the flames. "The Grey Wardens were founded long ago at Weisshaupt in the Anderfels."

Alistair held up a hand to interrupt Duncan. "Wait, wait a minute, I need to know something before you go on any further."

Duncan tilted his head to one side in acknowledgement of Alistair's concern. "And what is that?"

Alistair's eyes shone in the firelight. "Are there griffons in this story?"

Riordan burst out into laughter so hard that he rolled off his bedroll into the dewy grass. He covered his face with his hands to hide his tears. Riordan knew that question would be asked.

"Yes," Duncan said slowly, "there are griffons."

"Do Grey Wardens fly on them?"

"This is the founding of the Grey Wardens," Duncan chided, "not the battle against the Archdemon." He shot a glare at Riordan's shaking frame.

"But do Grey Wardens fly on the griffons?" Alistair asked in earnest. "They must have practiced flying on them."

"If I find," Duncan poked at the fire again, stirring the coals so that a rush of heat came floating towards him, "that is relevant to the tale, I will include it."

"But - "

"_Alistair,_" Duncan shook his head, "do you want to hear the tale or not?"

"I do. I'll be quiet now." Alistair pressed his lips shut.

Giving a final look between Riordan and Alistair, Duncan took a deep breath and began…

"The first Blight had been raging for ninety years. The Darkspawn spread their Blight across the land, tainting land, man, and beast with their pestilence. No one was safe from the encroaching mass of the horde. Villages lived in fear that they would be swallowed up in the night, or worse, would awake to find their farmlands blackened by corruption. And it was in the Anderfels, Alistair, in one such village that the story of the Grey Wardens began.

"Brun the Wolf was a man of forty-five, with broad shoulders and a mass of dark hair that was already beginning to silver. He was built like a farmer, with strong arms, a sturdy back, and large hands that were dirty more than they were clean. And though he came from a noble lineage, he also had the heart of a farmer, for no matter how far duty had him roam, he always yearned for the soil of his home. Brun had experienced this longing many times: he was a knight in the service of the King of the Anderfels, and had waged many long, bloody battles against their conquerors the Tevinter Imperium and the demon plague-bearers in the King's name. Yet, a farmer had no more love for war than he did for a drought, and now as Brun entered his forty-sixth winter, he asked his King for leave to settle down on the southern frontiers where he might still serve, though in a different capacity.

"The southern borders of the kingdom had become a wasteland of dry wind and black, fetid earth. The plague-bearers had sewn their poison into the land, and nothing would grow in the purple filth under the perpetually grey sky. Every year the poison spread closer north, to the lands were the sky was still blue beyond the mountains and towards the sea. Brun would have given his life to stop the day that would soon come, when Hossberg would be smothered by a colorless sky and its walls would be ripped down by tendrils of death itself. Their only hope was to try and take back what land had been stolen from them by the creatures, and try in vain to make that land bear fruit once more. And so Brun the Wolf, with his king's permission, left the King's service to become a farmer again in the southern territories where the grass was high and the wind bitter.

"With him he took two of his sons, leaving his daughters and youngest son in the care of his sisters and their ladies in waiting. His wife, Katrin of the River, with her hair of honeyed wheat and eyes of sky blue had insisted that she join him - "

"Hold a moment, Duncan," interrupted Riordan, "the way I have heard it said in Jader, it is that Katrin of the River had grey hair and a face filled with moles. Her saving grace, her comfort, to Brun the Wolf were her - "

"Riordan," warned Duncan, "if you wish to tell the story, then by all means, you should. Another interruption and you might find yourself doing so."

Riordan fell silent, but shot a sly look at Alistair, whose imagination had run away with him and was now sporting bright red cheeks.

Duncan cleared his throat, " - that she join him, for her mother's folk were farmers. She had grown up planting seeds and husking the black corn of the Anderfels. Despite the dangers that Brun warned her of, she remained steadfast in her belief that she could help him. Unable to dissuade her, Brun mounted her on the wagon beside him, and with supplies and their sons in the back, they made the journey south. With wood and sweat, Brun built them a home atop a hill that overlooked the small patch of land the King had granted him, and that spring they planted all they could."

"Were there griffons around Brun's homestead?" Alistair asked, breathless.

Duncan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "When Brun worked in the fields in the early morning light, he could often hear the calls of griffons in the distance, though he never saw one fly over head."

Alistair gave a groan of disappointment and rested his elbows on his knees. "Did he know any griffon breeders?"

"Yes, Duncan," Riordan smirked, "did he?"

Duncan ignored them both. "It was in the middle of summer that the darkspawn came..."

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><p>Brun wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and stared out at the flat rows of earth where his plants were resting. Unable to sleep and plagued with bad dreams, Brun had decided to rise earlier than usual, leaving his bed and the embrace of his wife's smooth thighs behind for the embrace of the earth. Green stems and bright leaves poked out of the soil before him, and stalks and vines sprawled across the tracts of ground he'd allotted for them. It was an unusually warm dawn, and the air was hanging hot and heavy over the land like a sweat soaked shirt. The brief gusts of wind that puffed his way were pungent, and filled with the sweet scent of decay. Full light was still an hour away, and the sky overhead was an oily blue, tinged only with the faintest wisps of soft white. The stars had scattered, and the moon was hiding her face behind the gloaming's thin clouds.<p>

There was an uneasiness riding in Brun's gut, like a hundred of the King's fastest horses all galloping at once inside him. It was at once both a feeling welcomed and dreaded, for this was the feeling that Brun had when battle was upon him. Though he knew wealth from his birth and the soil from his heart, all Brun had truly known in life was war. From the earliest age possible, his father had wrapped his fingers around the hilt of a sword and trained him to be a soldier, a knight of the people.

He had fought in wars and waged campaigns, he had killed men in shallow brooks and lost his boots in the mud, and he had killed men on the open field with the screaming of horses all around him. He had slain barbarians, mages, dogs, and beings of twisted flesh and power. He had also slain creatures that were men-like but were not, who gurgled and bucked and crowed, and sprayed black poison over his friends. He had been forced to slay those friends, for the poison corrupted the skin and the soul, and men brave and strong became creatures with misshapen speech and patches of something foul on their skin that tried to kill him while he slept. He had been forced to slay their dogs too, for the black poison corrupted them and bid them turn on master and friend. Brun had lost four war dogs to the black-blooded creatures and their poison, but he had lost friends uncounted to them.

But the poison had never taken Brun, and Brun could fight against the creatures where other men could not. He had been covered in their blood, inhaled their rotting flesh, and never had the sickness befallen him. And that is why Brun had fought for so long, forced ever to battle when his heart was elsewhere. Whatever could kill other men could not kill Brun, and he had barely convinced the King to let him leave.

"My Wolf," the King had said, "you can smell out the creatures that taint this land, and you can fight them like no other man I know. You are a demon unleashed upon those Tevinter-spawned devils, I will be damned if I see you go."

Brun's only reply had been to say, "If I am in the South, then I can protect the farmers there. Let the reclaimers have me, for the glory of our people cannot be left to linger and die in the North as we wait for the poison to reach us."

It had been enough for the King, for there had been reports of attacks in the South, and chilling tales of women being ripped from their beds by the monsters. He had let Brun go to farm, on the condition that he would protect. "Use whatever powers the Gods have given you, Wolf, to save this land."

Brun the Wolf did as was commanded.

The uneasiness inside him was spreading, and he rushed into his home to find his sword and shield. He woke his sons and roused his wife, bidding them to go below into the pit he had dug below the house for such an occasion. He shut them in tightly and drew over the floor door the rug that his wife had woven. His sons had taken their own weapons down with them, so that if their father should fall, they would be able to protect their mother.

He strapped himself into the leather armor he had brought with him, fastening buckles with the ease of long-practiced experience. His sword belt he strapped around his waist and his shield he slipped onto the length of his broad forearm. He also grabbed his skinning knife, and this he thrust into a pouch in his boot that he had carved out for such an occasion. Beyond his wits, there were very few things other than a weapon and some padding that a man needed in battle. Brun crept quietly out of his house, feet light as they could be in the pale morning's darkness. He rounded one wall and came to where his horses were tethered, including the black charger that had survived many a battle with him.

The charger greeted him with a small grunt and pushed its head into the hand that Brun offered. Brun sensed that the horse was as uneasy as he was, as the creature had seen and smelt the beasts that were prowling out in the twilight many times before. Untethering the horse, Brun mounted swiftly and brought the charger to bear, circling it round to get it accustomed to his weight once more. Brun had not ridden the charger for a week, but the beast was not unruly.

Brun closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to quiet his mind and the tossing in his gut. There was a buzzing in his head, and if he shut his eyes he thought he saw pinpricks of red and yellow in the distance. The drone could drive a man mad if he did not master himself, but Brun only experienced the whining whir of hornets when he faced down one of the black-blooded half-men. Exhaling, Brun's mind was no less clear, but he had pinpointed the direction of the buzzing swarm. He urged his horse in its direction, riding to meet the beasts rather than await their attack.

They were in a scraggly copse of trees a mile's ride to the west of his farm, having emerged from the night air. Brun was lucky he found them, because a farmstead lay in the path ahead of them, and they would have come upon it in shadow and secret and slaughtered everyone within it. After dispatching the five, gangly limbed monsters with his sword and his charger's hooves, Brun rode forward to the farmstead to ensure that its inhabitants were safe. The buzzing had yet to retreat as it so often did when the creatures before him died, and he was thankful that he had not turned and gone back home, for two shadowy shapes were lurking near the front of the house. They retreated across the fields as Brun rode forward to meet them. They slunk through vegetables and corn as the sun began to rise, and Brun waited until they had passed beyond the farmer's crops before he slew them. Where these creatures fell no living thing would grow, and the farmers of the South had a hard enough time eking out their living as it was. There was no need to burden them further with sloppy, inconsiderate killing.

Brun rode to the farmstead and knocked loudly on its door, and a man of about his age and build answered him.

"What have I done to offend the King?" asked the man, but seeing Brun shake his head, he lost his sour expression.

"You were about to be set upon by the plague-bringers," Brun said gruffly. He drew the man out into the field and pointed to the beasts he had slain. "Don't touch them. Tell me, have you wood? Oil? Flint and tinder?"

The farmer nodded. "I...I do. Why?"

"You must burn their corruption quickly," Brun advised, stalking around the dead bodies and eyeing the blood that was slowly pooling out of the wounds in their armor. The hot, viscous substance hissed and bubbled against the earth, leeching it of color and sucking it of life. He snapped his gaze up to the farmer. "Now."

Scuttling away, the farmer retreated to the house and returned several minutes later with arms filled with the requested objects. By the time he had come back, the corruption had burnt almost into the farmer's crops, the blood barely a hand's width away from touching the border of brown soil. Brun quickly dumped the oil along the bodies and then on the ground around them. He threw down the sticks in the areas where the oil didn't reach, and then striking his hunting knife against the tinder, he set the two creatures and their pestilent fluid alight.

He asked the farmer if he could keep the tinder, and the farmer bobbed in agreement. With it in hand, Brun rode back to the first group of beasts he had slain, and he set the small copse of trees ablaze. The fire consumed the blood and the blackness as easily as it did the wood and the needles. With the smoke rising in the distance behind him, Brun rode home to his wife and sons with a grim face and a feeling of unease. Though his home was undamaged, he was unsure for how much longer their fragile peace would last. The time to act would come soon, but Brun was at a loss as to how.

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><p><em>This story was originally written for the Bioware Bang challenge on Livejournal - and now that the fruits of our labor have been picked, we thought we'd share it! All of us had great fun writing this story, and crafting a shared fanon that we can use for reference in our own works. Chapter 2 will follow shortly, so for now, sit back, and enjoy the story!<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"No, Duncan, you're telling this all wrong," Riordan interrupted, wearing a smirk. He rubbed his hands to warm them for the night was growing colder. "The lad doesn't want to hear about an old man," he continued pointedly, slapping his old friend heartily on the back.

"Tell him about Freya, the first woman Warden, the daughter of a chieftain from one of the Ciraine tribes. She was known as Freya the Fierce, with hair the color of her chestnut charger and eyes that were an uncanny grey. She was beautiful and they say she was deadly with her sword. That's what a young man wants to hear about."

"No, that's what _you_ want to hear about," Duncan corrected.

"Tell me," Alistair broke in, eyes wide and voice enthusiastic.

Eyebrow raised, Duncan looked at his fellow Warden and replied with a solemn smile, "Then I suggest you take over, old friend. You obviously know the story better than I do."

Riordan's infectious grin nearly split his face in two and he was not at all put out by Duncan's words. "They say she even tamed a griffon on her first try."

"Oooh, a griffon? Really?" Alistair sat up, eyes bright with interest.

Duncan hid his chuckle in a cough. "Alistair, the griffons are not the point of the story," he chided his young charge.

"I know that, Duncan, but they're _griffons_," Alistair enthused.

With a broad wink and a cheeky grin, Riordan took up the tale. "She was the last of her clan when she felt a pull in her to travel north. She had no idea why or what was calling to her and she didn't know where she was going, but she saddled her chestnut charger and left her old life behind…"

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><p>Freya, daughter of Closivar the Courageous, became the last of her clan in her twenty-fifth year. She watched each member of her clan die, one by one, falling into the darkness; the deep grey that penetrated everything in her world. Yet she had not fallen, had not become as twisted and tainted as the other members of her clan. In all her battles against the dark scourge, she had never become sick and she had an extraordinary strength against the enemy that none of her clan understood. Some remarked, with suspicion and fear, that her resistance to the sickness was a sign that she was as much a creature as the half-men they fought. Some said it was a blessing from the Gods; that it showed the Gods favored the Closivar Clan. She knew it only as a curse.<p>

Her husband Arnot was the last to die, wasting away until he was a grey, mindless creature that begged for death with one breath and threatened to kill her with the next. His eyes had become glazed and feverish, his tongue coated with a thin layer of black ichor. She finally tied him to the bed, fearing that he might attack her but fearing his death even more. She would be alone then and she wasn't sure she was strong enough to bear that burden.

"You know what you must do, Freya. A merciful death is all I ask of you, wife," Arnot whispered weakly in a rare moment of lucidity.

Freya shook her head fiercely, her grey eyes blinking back tears. "I can't do that, husband. Do not ask it of me." Even as she spoke the words, the truth was there for her to see. She sat beside him, refusing to acknowledge it.

"Do it now while I am myself, Freya. Don't be afraid. I'll wait for you in the Fields," he encouraged softly and it was the love in his voice and the plea in his eyes that gave her the courage to take out her dagger.

"In the Fields," she agreed, bending over him and kissing his cold grey lips. She slipped her dagger into the space between his ribs where his heart resided. His last sigh lingered in her ears for hours. She gathered him in her arms and held him long into the night before finally falling asleep on the narrow bed beside him.

Her dream came again that night, as it had each night for weeks. Something underground stirred. Like ripples caused by a carelessly thrown stone in a placid pond, the movement grew and spread until it was a tidal wave, racing hungrily towards the shore, overwhelming everything in its path.

Freya sat up in bed with a sharp cry, her heart pounding like a caged beast demanding freedom. Gasping, trying to regain her control, she knew a horde was on the move and heading in her direction. It was not a thought, it was a certainty. She didn't understand how she knew it; she only knew it was true.

Propelled by fear and fury, she pushed herself off her bed and began yanking on her thick padding. Each piece of armor snapped sharply into place with cold precision. Each lacing, each strap, each buckle was fastened with grim determination. Her finely honed and polished sword slid into its scabbard with a quiet hiss.

She bent and kissed her husband one last time, glanced around their small hut and then stepped out into the pale grey dawn. Pouring oil along the base of the cottage, she sang to herself; the Song of Sorrows. Next she lit the torch and tossed it onto the thatched roof and watched as the flames licked at the dry straw like greedy children reaching for treats.

With quick, sure movements, she saddled Anechka. The chestnut coat was nearly the same color as Freya's hair and had been a gift from a neighboring clan. They were moving on, hoping to outrun the stunted half-men that pressed closer every day. The clan was heading southwest because they had heard rumors that the land there still lived, that the earth still breathed there. It was a wonderful fairytale, Freya thought. But surely the whole of the lands were tainted by now. War had been raging since the time of her grandfather's childhood. She could not imagine any land not already dead or dying.

Resolutely, Freya urged Anechka north, across the parched, grey fields. Grey, in any direction she looked. Be it the sky above or the ground beneath Anechka's hooves, all was painted some shade of grey. The sun was more grey than yellow, a watery reflection behind the ever constant steely grey clouds. The world, her mother had said, was a pale ghost of what it should be, what it once was. All of it was the fault of the creatures that now visited Freya every night in her dreams.

The only bright colors in her world were Anechka's coat and her own hair, flowing behind her as she rode. She kept her mind focused on what lay beyond her lands, her eyes scanning constantly for the twisted creatures that fought with such mindless hate. The first day she came across a small group of them.

Half clad, swinging brutal, bearded axes, they seemed to appear out of the very ground in front of her. She slid off Anechka and slapped at the horses rump. "Get you away," she hissed and her horse galloped off. With a soft 'snick' she unsheathed her sword and then pulled her dagger out of its scabbard. She had been fighting the scourge since her twelfth summer. She was not afraid of them. They were many but they were not trained, not honed on a battlefield. They seemed content to throw themselves at a sword.

"Come then, you soulless sons of whores! Let us see which of us is the better warrior!" she called out.

Their low, guttural cries came from all directions as they circled her and she crouched low, balancing her weight evenly on the balls of her feet. She struck at the nearest one, the tip of her sword catching him between his shoulder and his breast. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the point in and then danced away, her dagger up and slicing through the rotted, befouled flesh of the next creature. She felt the sharp pierce of an arrow and realized her mistake almost too late. An archer, standing apart from the others, was taking aim. She threw her dagger and it bit into the flesh just above his right cheek.

A few more swings of her sword, a few dips and twists, a parry and the fight was over. She was lucky that there were so few in the group and she assumed it was a scouting party. With a grunt of pain, she pulled the arrow out. Whistling for Anechka, she reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a poultice, slapping it into place on her shoulder before she mounted and pushed on, still wearing the blood of her foes on her armor. She would clean up when she stopped for the night, it was foolish to wait for the others in the scouting party to return and find her unarmored.

The first night on the road Freya found sleep impossible. Normal night sounds, even the creak of her saddle where she rested her head, seemed too loud and too foreign. Anechka nickered and fussed, stomping at the ground, nervous and anxious. Every time Freya closed her eyes it was to see her village burning as she rode away. The sound of Arnot's voice pleading to end his life filled her ears and choked her throat. Finally, she gave up any pretense of resting and stood up. Once she'd tamped out the fire, she moved to saddle Anechka and then set off across the open plains. The cold seemed to pursue her, the baying of wolves harsh and haunting in the darkness as she pushed forward, ever forward. There would be no going back. There was nothing to go back to.

Each day she traveled she saw less of the half-men but knew they were lurking in the shadows. The land she passed through was still grey and parched; dying slowly, tortured and twisted by the tainted plague of the creatures as they marched inexorably onward. What did they want? Why did they exist? Where had they come from? Questions she had sought answers to her entire life, as had her father and his father before him. Some said it was the wrath of the Gods brought down upon the clans for their wickedness but Freya could not conceive of the Gods, of _any_ Gods, who would punish even the innocents of the world. If not the Gods, then who? She spent her days wrapped in such thoughts, avoiding the memories of those she had left behind.

As she traveled, Freya's blood beat relentlessly in her veins, pulling her ever northward in search of answers and a new purpose in her life. She encountered no other travelers as she stayed off the main roads, riding instead across the dismal prairie. Lifeless, half grown stalks of corn and wheat bowed and broken, the color leached from them, fell under the pounding hooves of her horse. Beyond the prairie, her mind kept insisting, beyond the prairie was hope. Each night as she set up camp, she recited the Song of Sorrows and each night she fell onto her bedroll exhausted and unable to sleep for more than a few hours. The days felt like weeks.

By the fifth day of her trek she began to feel a distinct hum inside her head and along her veins, different from the constant prickling and tingling. It was gentle, almost melodic. She hunched over the fire shivering as the wind whipped up and the stars winked at her in the cold night sky. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the sensation she was experiencing. Below the night noises, seemingly from within her blood, came a soft song. It soothed her, brought a calmness that settled like a warm cloak around her. She could not explain it; she only knew it existed somehow. For the first time since she'd left home, she slept deeply, without dreams of twisted half-men and a world gone grey.

Late on the eighth day Freya discovered a miracle. For the first time in more years than she could remember, she wept. The sky above her was a deep dark blue and home to puffy white clouds. A brightly colored bird winged across her vision and she wiped at her eyes so that she could see its cheery yellow breast more clearly. Colors she had only seen in the clan's sacred paintings graced the landscape before her, above her, around her. The sun was brilliant and warm, the wind sweetly scented as it ruffled her hair. So much color, so much beauty. Her sobs shook her shoulders.

"Ho there! Who travels on my land?" a stout, dark-haired man asked, appearing from behind a tall tree whose leaves were the color of emeralds. Freya had seen paintings of such places, but she had never thought to actually see them for herself. She wiped at her tears and took a deep, steadying breath.

"I am Freya of Clan Closivar. Well met, stranger," she replied tearfully, embarrassed to have been caught crying in a stranger's fields.

"You're a long way from home, young Freya," the man said kindly, moving closer. She saw that he was smiling and she returned the smile with one of her own.

"That I am. Might I know with whom I speak?"

"I am Gunnar and I bid you welcome. How is it you come to be here?"

She looked into friendly blue eyes and any apprehension she harbored melted away. "I am not sure. I have been fighting the scourge in the south and I felt I had to come here. It is a curious thing, Gunnar."

"You've been fighting the scourge and aren't sick? That's even more curious, Mistress Freya."

He led her to a low, squat building of weathered grey timber and bade her enter. "Neva, come and meet our guest."

Whatever she had been searching for, Freya knew this was not it but she was content to be in the company of others, to be in a land that held more than grey death. She smiled as she greeted the farmer's wife. Neva, plump and homely, had a warmth about her that put Freya at ease.

Within a short time, they had given her a room and water to bathe with, unsaddled and fed Anechka and made her feel as if she had been a part of their family her whole life rather than just an hour.

They talked into the night, sharing their histories and stories. Freya didn't mention that she was the last of her clan or that her husband had died not ten days prior. She wasn't ready to part with that piece of her heart yet. They talked about the men who were trying to protect the farmlands and she was amazed to discover how much land was still unscathed by the horde of half-man creatures with their ruined faces and dagger sharp teeth.

Another meal was prepared as they talked and the three gathered at the long plank table to enjoy the fresh bread and a stew made with plump bits of beef and chunks of potatoes swimming in rich dark gravy.

"Is there an army of men fighting them here, then?" she asked, thinking that might be the reason her blood had brought her north.

"No, but I have heard tales of a man who fights the beasties as you do and does not sicken. I thought they were just tall tales, told to ease our fears but now that I know such a thing is possible, I think the stories must be true. It makes a body wonder, doesn't it?"

Freya's heart tapped loudly in her chest and she dropped her bread from suddenly lifeless fingers. "Another? Who is this man?"

"Some say he is the King's own guard, some say a warrior sent by the Gods themselves. His name is Brun the Wolf," Gunnar answered.

"Where might I find this Brun?" she asked quietly.

In the first gleaming golden rays of morning, Freya saddled Anechka and went in search of Brun the Wolf, hoping that he had the answers she sought.

* * *

><p>Brun had traveled into town to gather feed for his horses and tobacco for himself and was strapping the bags of goods to his horse when he found himself accosted by eager, greedy farm rats. These lads of not more than ten were orphans, having survived massacres from the southern farmsteads. They had scrabbled their way north blood stained and dirty, with rags on their hands and feet. Most of the time they were shunned, not only for their habits of pranking and stealing, but because they were believed to carry the blood sickness that the half-men did. Unfortunately for them, the blood sickness had not taken them, and they were forced to live off charity, poaching, and theft. Brun was kind to these children with no father, and he would often buy them some meager offering of food. As a father, it pained Brun to think of children going hungry when he could otherwise prevent it.<p>

But today, the farm rats weren't after a bag of oats. They had come to tell him some gossip they'd overhead from their prowling of the roads.

"Someone's lookin' for ye!" chirped the smallest of the rats. "She was pretty."

"Looking for me?" Brun frowned a deep scowl that emphasized the thick lines in his forehead. "Do you know why?"

"Couldn't say!"

"No," another of the rats smacked the young one's head, "she wouldn't say. Mighty quiet that one is. Only knew what she was after because she said your name."

"There are many men named Brun here," Brun replied, placing his hands on his hips.

"Are they all called 'the Wolf' then?" asked the first boy with a filthy grin. "You owes us, you do, for this."

"Thank you for the warning. And I do owe you, though that will depend on your description of this woman. And a name."

"Brownish hair, a bit red. Big grey eyes, and," one of the boys held his hand to his chest and waggled his eyebrows. "Yeah."

Brun paled at the image that was painted. "I see. And the name?"

"Didn't catch it." The eldest of the farm rats was a tall, straw-haired boy with keen eyes and quick fingers. "But she wasn't dressed like she was from around here. Pa used to do dealings with some of the tribes in the south, and she looked a lot like one of them."

"Then her name is probably unpronounceable," Brun replied grimly. "Hopefully, she seeks me for only good reasons." He chuckled when the farm rats clawed at his clothes. "Your payment, eh?" Brun lowered the bag of oats he had below one arm and gave it to the eldest child. "Eat it well, my little friends." .

The children crowed out their thanks and fled to the shade of the trees that lined the road outside town, and Brun watched them until they darted out of sight behind the trunks. When he could no longer see them, he returned to his business of saddling his horse with the grain and tobacco he had purchased. Mounting the charger was easy enough, but getting home was a different matter.

A half mile from his home, Brun felt a familiar buzzing in his ears. His stomach lurched and his grip tightened on the reins of the horse as he spurred it forward down the road. Something inside him was pulling him forward, as if a fisherman had hooked a line under his ribs and was reeling him down the road to a point unknown. All Brun could do was ride faster, faster, faster over gravel and sand, galloping by the cross roads that would lead him home. South he rode, and then west, drawn inexorably to the hornet's song of trouble that lay under grey clouds.

He saw the battle before he heard it, the road long, flat, and clear even under the gloomy sky. The half-men with their burnt faces and clawed hands had surrounded a traveler on the road, who fought with all the viciousness of the tribespeople he had heard so often about. The tribesman swayed and whirled, deflecting blows with his blades and stabbing out to slice at pale, matted flesh. Brun did not see much else about the fighter of the half-men, as the world around him became a blur of color as the charger surged forward and Brun unsheathed the sword he kept at his hip.

The charger barreled into the flanks of the half-men, screaming as it reared and kicked out with its hooves. It flattened the beasts under its mighty legs, crushing their heads as though they were boiled apples beneath its weight. Brun gave a terrible roar and stabbed his sword downward into the neck of one of the creatures, and a stream of black blood burst like a fountain from the wound. Brun turned his horse from the spray, charging around the tribesman who was picking off the half-men who had not scattered from the fearless horse. Circling around, he rode headlong into a group of five who thought to attack in stealth and secret, using the deaths of their brothers as an aversion. The charger kicked and reared again, crushing the limbs of one creature, and shattering the head of another.

Brun grunted as he parried one of their crude, misshapen short swords away. Images flashed in his mind - no, not even images, just intent, a deep, dark intent. He felt as though he could see himself on his horse, looking out through the eyes of one of the creatures. He was raising a wicked, two-headed battleaxe over his head, waiting for the moment to bring it down... Brun thrust out the hand that was not holding his sword and felt his fingers touch around something oily, but also organic and wooden. He made a fist and pulled hard, his horse veering to the left towards the tribesman as he wrenched the battleaxe from the half-man's hand.

There were now four of the beasts left, and Brun watched that number fall to three as the tribesman - no, tribeswoman - viciously severed the head of one of the creatures. She kicked out with a long leg and caught the creature in the chest, and then brought her sword and dagger to either side of its neck and sheared skin and muscle from bone. Blood flew into the air, splattering on the ground in patterns that not even the oldest of crones could read. The tribeswoman turned to assist him, a flash of fair skin and chestnut hair and a blur of blood-splattered padding as she darted to the last of the half-men on the tips of her toes. Brun was riding beside her as she ran dancing along the dirt. When she raised her swords he did also, and all three of them - the horse, the rider, and the tribeswoman - took down a foe. Hooves and blades fought as one, and around them lay a score of twitching bodies.

Brun dismounted his horse and sheathed his sword as the charger stamped its feet impatiently as Brun inspected it for cuts. His horse's chest was splattered in blood that was not its own, as were the sides of its neck. It was not until Brun reached the horse's flank that he felt fear rise in his gut, for he saw a nasty scratch on its left that had him cold with dread. Though the area was otherwise clean, the blades of the half-man were as corrupt as their nails and their teeth, and even a scratch from a blade could kill. Brun quickly drew out his clean hunting knife and widened the cut on the horse, dragging his knife as deep as he dared into the horse's hide. The charger screamed and brayed furiously, but it did not dare rear or buck out at its master. Brun cut until the wound ran red, the blood there bright and fresh. He squeezed at the wound, keeping it open for as long as he could, letting the flow of hot, living blood push out any corruption that lay under the skin or in the blood itself. To let the wound fester and stagnate would be an immediate sentence of death, but this way, at least Brun could say that he had tried. He had seen a friend - now dead to the beasts - save one of his war dogs in such a fashion, and Brun hoped that it saved his charger too. Brun sighed and wiped the knife on his pant leg before he returned it to his boot. With his horse seen to, Brun then turned to the woman who had fought beside him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her in a gruff voice, his bright blue eyes skimming over her padded form.

"No," the tribeswoman shook her head, "I'm...I'm fine." She eyed Brun with some suspicion, but also appreciation. "Thank you for your help against the half-men."

Brun nodded his head. "It is my duty, think nothing of it." He looked over her features, then down over her arms and legs. "You sure you are not hurt?" He saw the blood splatters on her lips. "You did not swallow?" He gestured to his mouth.

"No," the tribeswoman repeated. "And even if I did, it...wouldn't matter."

Brun grunted. He assumed the woman was referring to the inevitability of death. "Ah." He turned and mounted his horse.

"Wait!" The tribeswoman put a hand on his leg, "aren't you hurt?"

"No," Brun replied, and then added afterwards with a half smile, "and if I was, it would not matter."

The tribeswoman narrowed her eyes, her grey stare curious. She saw his scabbard, and the intricate designs of inlaid gold along the leather exterior. Wolves of flame reared and snarled as they clawed at something unseen. "Who are you, traveler?"

"I am Brun," Brun said, placing a dirty, long-fingered hand to his chest. "A farmer of this land."

"I am Freya of Clan Closivar. I seek a man called Brun."

"You?" Brun blinked, just now truly _noticing _the color of her hair and eyes, and the leathers that she wore. "You are the one the children spoke of?"

Freya snorted. "Those were not children. Perhaps they are children in face, but in their hearts they are men."

"Did they steal from you?"

"They tried to." She smirked.

Brun said nothing.

"Is it true what they say?" Freya asked, rubbing the hilts of her weapons absently. "That you fight the half-men?"

"It is true." Brun nodded.

"And is it true that you have fought them for many years?"

"Since I was a boy of fourteen winters."

"And you do not sicken?"

Brun shook his head. "No, I do not sicken."

Freya smiled at him, and the wind ruffled chestnut curls across her forehead. "I also do not sicken."

"How long have you fought them?" Brun asked, surprised by her confession.

"Since my twelfth summer."

"In battle?"

"Where else?" Freya asked in amusement. She raised an eyebrow at his expression of wonder, and the way in which his brow knitted together in confusion. "I can feel you. You can feel me as well, can't you? We're the same."

"But how?" Brun stared down at his hands, which grasped his charger's reins. "We share no blood and no kinship."

"Why should it matter?" Freya tossed her head back. "We fight the half-men, and we do not sicken. We're the same."

Both Freya and Brun turned their heads at the sound of hooves on the road, and Freya broke out into a smile at the sight of Anechka's chestnut form riding towards her. Freya outstretched her hand, and the horse came to a stop with its forehead pressed to her palm. Stroking its neck gently and whispering soft words, Freya mounted her steed and brought it around so that she sat next to Brun.

"Where you ride, Brun," Freya said quietly, "I'll follow. If you go to fight the half-men, I am coming with you."

"I'm riding home," Brun replied brusquely. "But you are welcome to come with me. Though," he sighed, "if my wife seems aggrieved to have you, do not hold it against her."

"She has nothing to fear from me." Freya's eyes flicked to the distant south, to the lands where she had come from, and to the husband she had buried.

"Then," Brun nudged his horse forward, "follow me."

* * *

><p>"That's how they met? By accident? That's not very heroic," Alistair complained. He shrugged his shoulders and looked first at Duncan and then at Riordan for confirmation. Duncan tossed a log on the fire and watched the shower of sparks whirl away into the darkness.<p>

"You don't think that meeting in the middle of nowhere and fighting a score of darkspawn is heroic?" Riordan asked, blue eyes dancing with mirth. "You expected them to meet while riding on the backs of griffons, lad?"

Alistair's blush told both men that Riordan had guessed correctly.

Duncan gave a small chuckle and tended to the fire that had grown low as Riordan had told the tale. "There will be griffons soon."

"How soon?" Alistair grinned.

"How do you think they got to Weisshaupt, Alistair?" asked Riordan with a wink. He folded his hands over his knees and stared at Alistair with barely suppressed humor.

Alistair waved at them in a dismissive gesture, hiding his desire for the Grey Warden beasts of legend. "Don't tell me: they flew on the backs of griffons?"

"Don't be daft, lad!" Riordan smirked, "they rode to Weisshaupt on their horses."

"Well," Alistair drew out the word, "that's no fun, no fun at all."

"It certainly wasn't," agreed Duncan. He shot a quick glance at Riordan, who nodded his approval, before beginning the story once more. "The road to Weisshaupt was fraught with perils: from darkspawn to brigands and bandits."

"But I don't understand," Alistair said quickly, "why Weisshaupt? What made Weisshaupt so special that Brun and Freya would just decide to go there?"

"They had heard a rumor of a fortress within the mountains that refugees fleeing the darkspawn flocked to. They thought that at such a place they might find others like themselves, survivors who had nowhere else to go, who would help them fight against the half-men. The fortress was Weisshaupt, and it had been abandoned by the Tevinter Imperium for many years," Duncan explained, "it had fallen into disrepair, but its walls were high and strong. Many refugees fleeing the darkspawn gravitated to the former Imperium fortress, since they were unwelcome in many of the northern cities, as the people within them feared that they carried the Blight. Weisshaupt was a safe haven, a place where those fleeing the Darkspawn could come together behind stone walls and Imperium magic."

"Was there really Imperium magic?" Alistair raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Duncan shrugged, his coat creaking in the darkness as the fire crackled merrily. "There might have been. Weisshaupt was never besieged by Darkspawn prior to its occupation by Grey Wardens."

"What was it like?"

"It was not so different than how Weisshaupt Fortress is today." Duncan looked thoughtfully at Alistair. "There were many people there, from all across the north of Thedas. It was cold, and the snow fell heavily in the mountains, but it never stuck due to old enchantments. I imagine that there was a lot of noise, both from the refugees and the animals they brought with them."

"And," Riordan added with a wide smile, "from the cries of griffons."

* * *

><p><em>And so our two intrepid heroes meet for the first time! Their adventures continue in Chapter 3 - Weisshaupt! Stay tuned, dear readers (and we're looking at you, Cloud and Josie)!<br>_

_Much adoration goes out to Sinvraal and Enaid Aderyn for their tremendous skills in helping shape the Grey Tales. Enaid kept our story straight, and Sinvraal beautifully depicted it. Sinvraal's artwork, by the way, can be found in our profile. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
><strong>

A howling wind caught at Freya's breath as they rode. Motes of snow danced in the wind and melted as soon as they landed on Anechka. Her eyes smarted and her skin stung but she kept pace beside Brun. Ahead of them, rising sharply above the flat plains, was a mountain range. She squinted, staring into the distance. They were nearing the rumored fortress, the haven for refugees. A place that many whispered still bore the magics of the Tevinter Imperium's magi.

She made out the soaring watch towers first; graceful white arches that seemed to be a part of the very mountain it was built into. The main tower, taller than the rest, had once been used for the signal fires. She could make out the soot that still clung to its curving dome. Long wings extended from either side of the main tower, like a bird's outstretched wings. The fortress spanned many levels; each carved with delicate precision into the cliff-face of the mountain and walled in solid stone. The lowest level had the highest walls, reaching up three stories. It was a sheer, grey mass of rock that looked as impenetrable as Brun's stare. And the closer they got to Weisshaupt, the more she realized that the prickling sensation in her blood was similar to the feeling she experienced with Brun, but muted.

"Let us hope our blood has guided us well," she called to Brun.

"You feel the pull, Freya. Do not tell me otherwise," he grunted, without a glance for her.

It had been that way since they left his farm and Katrin. Few words from a man who spoke sparingly on any day. Freya had wanted to like his wife but there was no warmth in Katrin for a young woman who shared a bond with her husband; a bond that a wife couldn't understand. How did one explain the inexplicable? She had tried, as had Brun, but it sounded like a bedtime tale told to wide eyed children. Freya had been relieved to depart.

They were linked by their blood. They always knew where the other was even if one of them closed their eyes and the other entered another room. They could find each other in the dark. She could feel him in her sleep when the nightmares came. He understood. It gave them an intimacy that was unexpected and impossible to describe to one who did not feel it. But for Freya it was a comfort to know that she was not alone and would never again be alone.

As they neared the fortress, Freya was dismayed to see that the massive wooden gates hung broken, their great hinges rusted. The graceful columns were pitted and cracked, arches split and crumbling. A safe haven in desperate need of repairs. The noise assailed her ears and she pulled sharply on the reins. Voices mingled with the relentless calling of ravens and the cacophony of a great many animals. Above all the other noise came the plaintive cries of griffons.

"What is it?" Brun asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.

How could she tell them that it was all too much for her? It overwhelmed her. The colors, the noise, the number of people crowded into the fortress all made her hands shake and her heart slam into her chest in a way that the battlefield never had. She shook her head, unwilling to give voice to her thoughts. She couldn't tell him, her pride wouldn't allow it. She nudged Anechka's flanks and the horse moved forward. For good or ill she was where she had to be and there was no turning back. She flung a look over her shoulder to see Brun's horse trotting to catch up.

Brun the Wolf and Freya the Fierce entered the fortress side by side.

They were greeted with wary words and watchful eyes. Brun returned each greeting in his proud, quiet way and Freya followed suit. She had no illusions that she would ever be more than Brun's Hand, second to him. He was a natural leader. People looked to him for guidance and he gave it to them unflinchingly. She had been raised to become chieftain upon her father's death but she had learned and trained for the role unwillingly. Her heart would always be on the battlefield.

The horses picked their way carefully through the throngs of refugees. Camps and wagons and people sprawled along the walls of the fortress and fanned inward, toward the vast courtyards. As they passed a large and colorful encampment, a man stepped from the shadows of a tent and moved to stand in front of the horses, forcing Brun and Freya to pull up sharply.

She felt it then, the low thrum in her blood. He was one of them. Tall and broad, scarred by war, he nodded at her and then at Brun. From his height and the dark red of his hair, she knew he was one of the Ciraine.

"Greetings, clansman. I am Freya of Clan Closivar."

"Greetings, Freya of Clan Closivar. I am Dynal of Clan Durivar. I am the last of my people."

"No longer are you alone, Dynal of Clan Durivar," she replied quietly. The Durivar Clan gone. The Closivar Clan gone. How many of the great clans of the Ciraine tribe were left? She pushed away the unwelcome thought.

"This is Brun the Wolf, a great leader among his people. Join us, brother."

* * *

><p>Word spread with the speed of a wind-whipped wildfire. Brun the Wolf, a warrior blessed by the Gods, was gathering a force that would end the war against the dark half-men. With him was a barbarian, as beautiful as she was fierce. Rumors jumped from one small clump of refugees to the next and with the rumors came the first small sparks of hope. Men long given to despair began to sharpen their blades. There was a buzz of anticipation that followed the small group as they progressed into the ruined fortress.<p>

Brun found an area away from the throng of refugees and began to unpack his gear; a small waxed canvas tent, a bedroll, his whetstones, a cookpot and all the items he considered necessary for a warrior. He glanced at Freya and saw that she too was unpacking her gear and beyond her was Dynal, his tent tattered and shabby. The young barbarian had seen hard days. He would see even harder days ahead.

They were three but his blood told him there were more among the refugees; a disparate lot of tribesmen, knights from both the Anderfels and the Tevinter Imperium, dwarves of the warrior caste and smith caste, elves that had once been slaves, and some with strange and colorful tattoos. Among them were those who fought the half-men and didn't sicken. He would find them and build an army. It was his duty, even if it meant leaving behind his home and land, his wife and sons.

Freya knelt in front of her pack and he was dismayed to see tears glittering on her cheeks, caught sparkling in the setting sun. He did not like the tears of women. They were a foreign language to him and made him feel helpless; a feeling he did not enjoy. He watched as Dynal knelt beside her and he listened silently as she explained about her husband. Dynal spoke quietly, the words in an unfamiliar language and as foreign to Brun as her tears. Brun knew he should say something, but what words of comfort could he offer her that she had not heard many times over? He could feel her inner turmoil; the sharp spikes of grief and sorrow were like thorns flowing in his veins.

"In death lies sacrifice. It is the way of the warrior," Brun finally said, his voice gruff. True and honestly spoken, his words seemed to give her some comfort. She gave him a grim smile and a quick nod before returning to the task of setting up camp.

He felt her in his blood, he knew her as a mirror of himself. He was unsettled by the bond between them, so much stronger than the bond he had shared with any of the soldiers under his previous commands, so unlike the bond he shared with Katrin. They were more together than individually and when they were separated, she stayed with him, an echo in his blood. Dynal was also an echo in his blood, though he was a stranger and they shared no link, other than Freya. There were other echoes as well - all rippling around him as though he were a stone cast into a deep pond. The closer he came to Freya and Dynal, the better he could feel the pull of those ripples echoing outward, a pull that led him and the others to the farthest parts of Weisshaupt.

Night came quickly in the mountains and dark fingers swept through the fortress just as they finished setting their camp to rights. Brun pulled out the salted meat that Katrin had given him before he left. He settled the blackened cookpot on a rock near the fire that Dynal was coaxing into life. Freya removed herbs from the soft leather pouch she wore at her waist and added them to the meat before pouring water over the mixture.

The three sat in silence as their meal cooked. Freya sat rubbing at her arms, staring around at the sea of campfires springing up as night settled around them. Dynal sat watching Freya, drinking occasionally from a waterskin that Bran was certain did not contain water. He glanced down to make certain his dagger and boot knife were handy. Dynal turned his gaze on Brun, an indolent smile on the large man's face.

"She was the daughter of a chieftain and destined to take his place. See the talisman she wears? It is the sign of the clan, given only to the chieftain's family. Their symbol is a prancing stag. She should not be here. Her responsibility is to restore the clan."

"She should be here," Freya answered, smiling with a certain fondness at Dynal that Brun didn't understand. "She can't restore what is lost to the Gods." She turned back to the fire and began to dish out the stew. Dynal added flatbread to their feast.

Did all the clans speak with such easy familiarity to the people of other clans? Did they all feel as though they were one big family? What he knew of the clans of the Ciraine tribe could be told in one sentence; there were many clans and each summer they held a conclave in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Everything else was the speculation and gossip of men sharing ale over campfires during military campaigns.

"There is something calling us. You feel it too?" Brun asked, directing the question to both Freya and Dynal, who nodded solemnly.

"Different than the pull we feel, strong but quiet. A song in the blood?" Freya puzzled.

"We'll go in search of the origin in the morning," Brun said around a mouthful of stew that was fragrant and rich with herbs.

In the morning, they rose as one. After a meager breakfast, they started off in search of the song that beckoned them.

On the lowest level of Weisshaupt, on a battlement long since abandoned, they found an elven crone, her face withered and marked with terrible tattoos. Her long, white hair was bound above her head in a severe knot, and was woven with braids, beads, and feathers, and she was possessed of a stooping posture and quick hands that looked like spiders. The elf had set up a tent amidst a lonely guard tower and spoke to the crows and snowbirds that nestled in the rafters, her voice an eerie, rolling lilt amidst the rattling wind outside.

"Come you have," she said in the sing-song voice of the elven tribes, "to see Myrhela of the Wilder." She twittered her tongue at the fire. "Brun the Wolf, Freya the Fierce, and Dynal Bearson, you come seeking answers to questions you do not have. Wardens you are. You guard those who do not hear the song."

"We were drawn here," Brun said slowly, eyeing the ancient deer hide tent with its paintings of a beautiful city and slender figures who rode tall horses. "Drawn to you, Myrhela of the Wilder."

"Drawn to Myrhela, yes, Myrhela is drawn to you too," the elven crone crouched near her fire and warmed her hands, their skin as white as bone. "Myrhela hears your song. She hears these songs. First in Myrhela's daughter, who slumbered inside her, and then in her second daughter, and the daughters that those daughters bore. Never in her sons, who withered and died like leaves in winter. No, never in the sons."

Freya's pale brow furrowed and she absently placed her hands around her midsection. "What do you mean?"

"All Myrhela's sons, all dead." Myrhela shook her head and twittered her sad tones to the birds. "All her grandsons, all dead. Only strong daughters remain. Strong daughters and Myrhela."

"Are your daughters here?" Brun asked. He crouched beside her, his dark leathers orange in the glow of the fire and its shadows. "Or are you alone, Myrhela of the Wilder?"

"The daughters are here, yes." Myrhela looked out through a frosty window that gave the four of them a view into the courtyard below. Many colored tents had been pitched, and elves and men and dwarves meandered around the makeshift marketplace in the fortress that had become their home. "They are out there. They seek to belong, to sing their secret songs."

"Your daughters," it was Dynal who spoke, his scarred face a sight in the dim light, "and their daughters, they are like you?"

"Wilder, yes," Myrhela bobbed her head. "Huntresses of the forest, yes."

"Are they like us?" Dynal put a gentle hand on Freya's shoulder.

"Yes," the crone hissed, "yes."

"We are building an army," Brun told her, his blue eyes bright with the fire of conviction, "to fight the half-men with their black blood. We seek warriors who can fight them and who can never be sickened by them. Warriors like us. Warriors who," he paused, searching for the words, "hear the song as all four of us in this room do. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the crone repeated, "Myrhela understands." She looked thoughtfully into the fire and chewed on a wrinkled lip, licking at the dye that split and marred the lip into three different colors. "The youngest of Myrhela's youngest. Seek you she. Seek you she."

"What is her name?" asked Brun, ducking low to catch the woman's eyes.

"Vhena," whispered the crone. "Strong arms and chest. Stronger heart."

"She's an archer?" Freya bobbed her head as she considered the crone's words. "Even amongst my people, the skill of the elves with a bow is known. If she is good, she would be useful."

"Aye," Dynal added darkly, "_if _she's good."

Brun ignored the conversation of his two fellows. "Thank you, Myrhela." He reached out a gloved hand and touched the woman on her shoulder softly. "You sing a strong song."

"As do you, Fen Brun" Myrhela's vivid green eyes narrowed. They looked like the color of wet moss, and glittered like raindrops on the earth. "Myrhela has words for you. Words to guide you."

Brun tipped his head in acquiescence. "I will listen."

Myrhela gave him a smile filled with missing teeth. "Good...good." She clapped her hands on either side of his head, her fingers splaying along his cheeks. "The half-men you call them, they are creatures of darkness. Like a wolf, sniff them into the blackness you will, deep down into the earth and into their warrens. They like not the light, they flee from it. They abhor it, and hide from you they will. To find them, light you cannot be. Grey like the dawn you must become: grey like rain and stone."

Brun started in surprise when she dragged her lips across his forehead.

"Myrhela gives you the blessing of the Creators. She will watch for you in the morning mist and high in the grey sky."

"Thank you," Brun gently removed the elf's hands from his face and gave her a polite bow as he stood. "You have been more than kind, Myrhela. It is clear that you sang to us for a reason."

Myrhela smiled again and bobbed her head in the way that birds do. "Go now to find Vhena. She is not far." She closed her eyes and inhaled the smoke from her fire deeply. "Just follow the sweetest of music."

Freya shot Brun a curious look, and Brun merely shrugged his shoulders. He led Freya and Dynal back into the morning sunlight, and they all breathed deep of the fresh, crisp air on the battlements.

"Vhena," Dynal said after some length. "An elven archer. From the Wilder."

"Until that moment," Brun said quietly as he stared into the distance, looking out across the vast forest and plains below the mountain, "I had not met one of the Wilder."

"It looks like we'll be meeting more of them," Freya touched the small of his back with a soft smile. She could feel his wonderment through the blood song they all shared. Dynal seemed to feel it too, for he gave a wistful sigh. "Come along, you two," Freya gave Brun a gentle shove towards the stairs leading down, and then did the same to Dynal. "We have to find Vhena and others like her. We won't do it if we're standing around sighing all day."

Dynal laughed and swatted at Freya's hand, but Brun's footsteps held a measure of sobriety as he followed them down the winding stairs from the battlement. Finding others like them was not merely enough. These others would have to be trained - not to fight - but to work together. They would need to be a single, unified force that fought as one against the half-men, and in Brun's experience, such a thing happened only after a lifetime of combat by another person's side. Strangers from across the land would need to put their faith in each other, and Brun was unsure if such a thing would be possible. A moment of despair washed over him - a flicker of doubt crackling across his mind.

But then as quickly as the doubt had come on, it was pushed aside. Fierce resolve, a hot, burning flame at the edges of his consciousness, took over. The fire washed across his mind in waves of chestnut hair, and Freya turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't despair now," Freya said, her voice strong and clear as the bells that called men to war in Hossberg. "We can do this. All of us share a common goal and a link that transcends beyond the consciousness of most men. I am in your blood, and you are in mine. Dynal is in our blood. That crone, she was in our blood too. All of us are linked."

"Are - " Brun blinked when Freya's hand fell over his mouth.

"I know what you fear," she said. "I saw it in your heart. You think that we can't fight the half-men as an army. But I say you're wrong." She tossed her chestnut-colored head like a fearsome filly, "I fought beside you, Brun. I have spilled the blood of the half-men alongside you, and I knew your movements even better than my own. I know you felt the same way."

Brun tried to speak but Freya's hand on his mouth pressed his lips gently.

"You aren't allowed to speak, unless you agree with me."

Brun's eyes widened and Dynal broke out into a huge roar of laughter, which plowed over Brun like a wave.

"Why are we following him?" asked Dynal with a grin. "We should be following you!"

Freya shot Dynal a sly look. "We're following Brun because he's fought the beasts longer, and he has led men before."

"I agree," Brun said around Freya's hand, pulling her fingers away from his lips. He flashed a rare smile in her direction upon seeing her look of surprise. "Now," he pointed to the mass of colored tents that ringed the gates of the fortress, "let us see if we cannot find this Vhena, as well as others like her."

* * *

><p>"Amongst the camps," Duncan said, "they found Vhena, a Wilder elf. She was a leather worker of great skill, as well as a talented archer. She was the one who crafted the first saddles for the griffon mounts of the Grey Wardens."<p>

"They also found the Tevinter Magister Verinius," added Riordan, "who was responsible for the Joining ritual."

"Who are the Wilder elves? They sound a lot like the Dalish."

"Not all elves were slaves, Alistair. Many hid in the woods and mountains, trying to hold to their traditions. They were known as the Wilder elves long before the elven slaves were freed and given a homeland in the Dales."

"Oh. Well, I can see the Wilder wanting to join the Grey Wardens, but why a Magister from the Imperium?" Alistair cocked his head quizzically. "Why was he even there, anyway? Was he trying to reclaim Weisshaupt?"

"No," Duncan shook his head, though he did concede that, "it was quite odd to see a Magister not in an Imperium controlled city. It is said that he came to Weisshaupt not to reclaim what was lost, but to study. On the day that Brun and the others found him, he was in the marketplace taking samples of blood from the refugees."

"He was a blood mage?" asked Alistair with raised eyebrows.

"He was," nodded Duncan, "and he was very interested in discovering the secrets of his own blood. He had experienced what Brun, Freya, and Dynal had when fighting the Darkspawn, which the Imperium, with its many holdings across Thedas, did often."

"But why would anyone let a blood mage take their blood?" Alistair looked horrified at the notion. "That's just a disaster waiting to happen."

"That is your Templar training speaking, lad," Riordan said, though not unkindly. "Some of those who came to Weisshaupt were indeed sick with the Blight, and were willing to give up their blood in the possibility of a cure. And their friends and relatives were willing to give up their blood in possibility of a cure too. Not that Verinius promised a cure," Riordan's teeth glittered white in the firelight, "but everyone dared to hope."

"Indeed," Duncan added in a soft voice, "the people of Weisshaupt were desperate for a cure, and for a purpose. To that end they came, one and two at a time to find Brun and the others and join in the fight. When Brun called for all able bodied men who were not sickened by the Blight to come forward and meet him at his camp, farmers and warriors, smiths and merchants, all who felt the fellowship of the blood came. Together, their blood sang a deep and rich song, and Myrhela, in her dark tower, chanted and sang to the Wilder gods for their blessing."

* * *

><p><em>And the story continues on in Chapter 4!<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**_  
><em>

Brun stood atop a ruined staircase and stared down at the throng of people that had come. He saw familiar faces - Freya with her beautiful heart shaped face, Dynal with his mass of red hair, Vhena with her wild tattoos of trees, Verinius with his waist length black hair and tight, rose bud mouth - but he saw many strangers in their midst as well. Men and women of the Dales who shared Vhena's face, and then others of northern stock with their swarthy skin and ruddy hair. There were barbarians in their leathers and dark-skinned men and women from over the dunes of sand. Many had come to pledge their service to Brun the Grey Wolf, the slayer of half-men. They had come to join him in the foundation of the Grey Wardens, men and women who fought against the half-men, forsaking their allegiances to king and country, and swearing themselves only to the cause.

"The only cure I can offer your families," Brun said in a deep voice, looking down at the crowd of people, "is vengeance. The only peace that can be given to them is the knowledge that they will be avenged by you. Join us, brothers and sisters." He put his hand to his heart, splaying it over the faded black leather, "join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

"We shall join you!" echoed Freya, "we shall join you!"

Vhena and Dynal rallied around Freya's call, chanting loudly and bumping the edges of their fists to their chest pieces. The rattling of leather and metal echoed in the early morning dawn as the forty would-be Grey Wardens called out their allegiance. The song in their blood was powerful, and it resonated with every slap of skin against ring mail or boiled leather, every word uttered in fealty. The roar was deafening, and everyone who felt the call had their hearts soar on high. Every breath was a promise to fight, every ecstatic tear a solemn oath of loyalty.

To Brun's dismay, there were some - there were many - in the number below him that were not like him. These people were empty voids, untouchable by the song, and merely obstacles as the notes swirled through them to someone else. These were people who would sicken and die if they fought half-men, who would become corrupted and polluted and eventually turn on their allies. It was not a fate that Brun would have of them, yet he could not in good faith turn down such devoted souls. As he descended the stairs to mix with those men and women who now shared arms with him, he found himself dogged by the curious Tevinter Magister.

"You are worried," said Verinius from behind his handsome, almost girlish face, "about those who aren't like us, yes?"

"They swore themselves to fight the half-men, but they cannot." Brun's hands curled into fists. "I will not allow them to throw their lives away."

"You do not need to."

Brun felt something sinister and alien working its way into the song, something emanating from the Magister's breast. "What have you done, Verinius?"

"Close your eyes," Verinius instructed, "how many of them do you feel? Not including myself, Vhena, and the two barbarians."

Brun humored the mage, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as he felt for those in the crowd who were like him, but were foreign. "Nine."

"Fourteen true slayers," Verinius placed a long fingered hand on Brun's forearm. "The rest are just fodder. You cannot," he said quietly, "have an army of fourteen men and women."

"And what is your point?" Brun flicked his blue eyes down to the white hand on his forearm, and then to the white face that was smiling at him.

"I can give you an army uncountable." Verinius's black eyes sparkled, his pretty features pulled into a beaming smile, "But I need some of your blood. Or Freya's. Or Dynal's. Even Vhena's! I am not picky. I just need blood that isn't...mine."

"Why?"

"Because with that blood, I will find a way to turn any man or woman, from any race and place, into what we are." Verinius licked his lips. "I have always known that there are others like me, like us," he amended, "and I have spent much of my time researching the origins behind this gift that we share, this ability to sense and commune with the half-men."

"Commune?" Brun shook his head. "No, we do not commune with them. We fight them."

"You can predict what they are up to," Verinius shrugged, "that is communing. There is more to communication than just words. You share images with them, as though you can see their thoughts." He scoffed loudly at Brun's stare. "Come now, you can't hide these things from me, Brun. I am like you, we are one."

Brun ducked his head so that he was at a height with the Magister. "What do you want with my blood?"

"I will unlock its secrets," the Magister flicked his eyes to Freya, and then to Vhena, "this gift appears randomly, but it is rare. However, what if we could bestow this gift upon anyone that we choose? There are many great fighters and mages in this world who do not have our abilities, but one sip of the draught that I create will change that. All these men and women who have pledged themselves to you but cannot fight beside you will be given the chance to, after just one drink. You will have an army," he continued, "an army by which to fight the half-men. The Grey Wardens need not be a handful of lucky farmers and blacksmiths. It can be filled with real soldiers."

"And how soon," Brun said slowly, "could you create such a thing?"

"Give me seven days," the Magister replied, "and I will create for you a Joining ritual, and all these faces you see before you will join you on the fields of battle."

"Then do it."

Verinius smirked. "And the blood?"

"It will be mine," Brun said, his gaze fixed on Freya. "Do not trouble the others about this."

"I will do no such thing," the Magister wrapped an arm around Brun's. "Now, go out there and greet your new Grey Wardens. When you are done," he whispered in Brun's ear, "come to the Tower of Scholars. It is the central spire in the second courtyard. That is where I will be."

Nodding, Brun pried himself away from the Magister. He felt a shiver go down his spine and a chill that not even Freya's warm smile and the heat of the crowd could push away. What Verinius promised was too good to be true, and Brun hoped that there would not be a price to pay for such a ritual. He did his best to shield his concerns away from his Grey Wardens, placing a smile on his face as he let the crowd absorb him and his fears.

He mingled amongst his sworn for an hour, learning names and faces as best he could in such a short time. Yet the time came when even the most excited of followers dispersed, and Brun was left with those he considered his most trusted officers. Not in their midst was Verinius, the dark-haired mage having slithered away to the shadows of his tower, and it was to that tower Brun went. Up the gloomy stairs and the winding hallways he walked, until at last he stood before Verinius. The mage seemed larger in his tower than he did outside, and it was with patient, deliberate movements that Verinius guided Brun into a chair and cut a long slit into his arm.

Brun did not remember much about what happened; his memory and his vision were hazy as the mage drained his blood from him, the liquid steaming against the frigid air of the high tower. Brun could only recall the slap and drip of his blood into the bowl below his arm. He was not proud enough to think that he staggered out of the Tower on his own, braving the winding staircase with his spinning vision and unsteady legs, but somehow Brun did manage to find his way back to his bedroll and he slept well past dinner and did not even rise when Freya placed her cloak over him and traced the long, white scar on his arm in a mixture of fear, sympathy, and confusion.

It was seven days to the very same hour when Brun next saw Verinius. In one hand the mage held a large goblet, and in the other he held a piece of yellowed parchment. Brun took the goblet from him and sniffed it, his nose wrinkling at the foul smelling liquid.

"I doubt anyone would want to drink this," Brun said after sniffing the liquid again. He looked into the glossy liquid in the metal cup's interior, seeing his reflection in the thick substance. "Does it taste as bad as it smells?"

"I imagine so." Verinius took the cup back from Brun and handed him the slip of parchment. "This is a copy of the recipe. Before you go brewing this en masse," Verinius sniffed in disdain, "you should come to me for proper instruction. It is a delicate mixture, and one that requires heavy treatment with lyrium."

"Lyrium?" Brun raised a black eyebrow. "What would you need that poison for?"

"Lyrium resonates with the blood," Verinius explained. "It augments its power. Your blood alone, at least in the quantity that was given, would not have enough potency to give a man your abilities. It would likely only make him sick, and he would die. The trick to augmenting," the mage's eyes sparkled with arcane delight, and his tone took on an air of superiority, "is to provide a dose of something strong enough to shock the body into accepting the power, to overwhelm its senses so completely that it can do nothing but submit. Anything less than that will kill a man, because the body will resist in its slow, sluggish way. The mortal form is so...limited...in that regard."

Brun did not fully understand. "Is my blood poisonous?"

"The mixture, if not created correctly, can be poisonous, yes. It is again reason why you should seek my instruction."

"There is not a lot of liquid," Brun frowned. "Are you going to need more blood?"

"Eventually." The mage flashed Brun a dazzling smile. "I will need more lyrium too. Would that there were substitutes for such things. I toyed with the idea of trying the blood of the half-men, but you have kept me so busy that I have had no time to go out and find one to drain."

Brun shook his head. "It is the blood that sickens men, Verinius. Having them drink the blood does not seem wise."

"In a sufficient dose," Verinius insisted, "with the proper treatment, I could most certainly create another mixture using the blood of the half-men that would be safe to consume. But as I said, I would need their blood, and I would need more lyrium. Until that time, we will have to suffice with your blood. Or," he cast a sidelong glance out one of the ruined windows and into the courtyard where Vhena and Freya were talking, "someone else's."

"Let it be mine."

Verinius nodded. "Very well, very well. Have you volunteers to drink this?"

"I will summon them," Brun said. "How many will that mixture afford?"

"A sip is all it takes," Verinius licked his lips in thought, "I imagine twenty Grey Wardens could be made from this cup."

"Then twenty it will be." Brun put his gauntleted hand on Verinius's shoulder, his fingers tickling the dark raven feathers the mage wore as decorations. "Wait here, Verinius. I will return within the hour."

When Brun returned, it was with twenty men and women, elves and humans and dwarves, all humming with anticipation. Brun had remembered their faces, and had sought them out amidst the many tiers of Weisshaupt that they called home. They were fearless as they marched towards the blood mage, Brun walking steadily behind them, herding them forward as a shepherd does a sheep.

They lined up before Verinius, and Verinius walked up and down their ranks, giving each a sip from the cup he held between both hands. "Join us," he said, placing the cold cup to their dry, winter-chapped lips. "Join us, brothers and sisters." He moved quickly and efficiently, with the clinical precision of one who accustomed to the care and handling of large groups of people. His imperious stare, once used for intimidating slaves and barbarians into submission, was now used to force the viscous liquid down their throats. If one hand trembled or faltered, Verinius would stare, and the trembling would stop and the mixture would slip down their throat. All the while, Brun watched from the shadow of the doorway.

It took less than a minute for twenty Grey Wardens recruit to receive the mixture, and about half that time for Brun to realize that he had, perhaps, made a terrible mistake. No sooner had Verinius given the last volunteer what remained of the mixture did the first volunteer began to convulse and shake. Down the row of men and women the convulsing spread, arms and legs twitching as eyes rolled back into heads and mouths opened in terrible, silent screams. Some arched their backs, their muscles tightening to almost impossible tensions as the mixture spread through their veins and burnt their blood.

Brun rushed forward and caught one man as he fell backwards, his body having stilled. Volunteers fell around him, crumpling to their knees, falling atop each other, spiraling backwards as their legs gave out. He stared up at Verinius, who was looking at the scene with a cool expression on his handsome face. To Brun, he had never looked uglier, his chiseled features almost blank of all feeling. He watched as the mage placed the cup down on the ledge of the window and then, lifting up the edge of his robe with one hand, glided across the floor to the first volunteer. He crouched in the dust and the dirt and placed his hand against the man's neck. His dark eyes closed.

"This one is dead," Verinius said. "As is the one next to him, and the one after that."

"You lied to me." Brun stood and his face was terrible to behold in its wrath. Over bodies and rubble he flew, capturing the Magister by the neck of his robe and hauling him off his feet. He pushed Verinius against the wall and placed his forearm beneath the mage's neck with the intent to choke him. "You said you would create a mixture that would imbue any man or any woman, of any race or place, with the same gifts that we possess. Yet all you have delivered," he growled, "is death. These people _suffered._"

"They are not all dead!" Verinius cried, grasping for air, "only the weak are! Look, look!" He pointed a white hand to a dwarf who had sat up amongst his fellows, holding his head in his hands. Down the row from him and elf sat, and next to her rose another man. "Feel them! It worked, it worked!"

"You are not at all remorseful for the loss of life," Brun's eyes narrowed even as he regarded the survivors.

"They _volunteered,_" Verinius's hands plucked at Brun's forearm, pinching the skin of his wrist with his sharp, but elegantly trimmed nails. "They knew the risks. I never guaranteed you survival; I guaranteed you the ability to make others like me - you - us. Whatever you told them to get them here, it matters not to me, you are right. What matters to me is that _I _was right, and that _I_ was successful. I did what no one else in the Imperium can possibly claim to without the use of outright magic. I successfully imbued a living being with abilities beyond their ken. I did it to several, in fact!"

Brun spat on the ground and shoved the mage triumphant away. "Stay out of my sight," he barked, "or so help me, I shall have _you _drink that mixture."

"It wouldn't do anything to me," Verinius said, completely unperturbed by the threat thrown his way. "I already have the gift."

Brun halted in his tracks. "Must you have an _answer _for _everything_?"

"Naturally," the mage rubbed at his throat and glided to Brun's side. "There is one thing that we have in the Imperium that the rest of the world lacks, and that is the ability to see beyond the edges of our mortality. You see only death and survivors, and you're languishing in sorrow. You have regrets. I do not. I," he placed a soft hand on Brun's lower back, "see only opportunity."

"Is that the only reason you remain here, rather than return to the Imperium?" Brun asked, sotto voce. "You see the opportunity to experiment?"

"Yes." Verinius sniffed in disdain. "I was also exiled because I loved a woman above my station, and so I can never return home to my books and my research. But I have moved beyond my attachments; as you will have to move beyond yours."

"They are the only things," Brun said sharply, "that separates us from the half-men."

"And they will also be the things that make us weakest against them." Verinius watched the surviving volunteers huddle and collapse against one another in sleep. "When you are concerned with the survival of others, you cannot concentrate on the fight. It is the first thing a Magister teaches his apprentices - when one is concerned for anything other than battle, the battle is already lost. Victory requires complete, unadulterated concentration. This war that you plan to wage against the half-men," he tilted his head to one side thoughtfully, "it is the war for all lives everywhere, all lands everywhere. Victory will come at a great price, and it will require the deaths of hundreds, perhaps even thousands. You will never lead us to victory if you concern yourself with anything other than the outcome. You must allow sacrifices to happen, even if they are personal sacrifices, such as the choices of your volunteers."

Brun said nothing and merely clenched his bearded jaw tightly.

"You do not believe me," Verinius chuckled. "But you will, eventually. It will be a hard lesson to learn. And if I were you," he cast his eyes out to the window once more, to where Vhena and Freya were now sparring with wooden daggers that Vhena had carved, "I would choose to learn such a lesson _now._"

"Why did they not survive?"

"I imagine that not everyone is meant to have the gift. Perhaps their bodies were too weak to handle the blessing, or their bodies rejected it." The mage shrugged. "I do not know."

"Will you ever know?"

"Probably not."

Brun hissed through his teeth. "Is there no way to ensure survival?"

"No." Verinius stepped in front of Brun and pursed his lips. "And you would do well to thank me for finding you a means by which to create your army rather than resenting me," he gestured to the breathing recruits who were curled together like sleeping kittens.

"No one will want to join us if they should know that to join us is to risk death before battle even begins."

"Then do not tell them." Verinius shrugged his thin shoulders. He smirked when he saw Brun's frown deepen, "I did not say you had to _lie _to them, I merely said you did not have to tell them."

Brun let out an exasperated sigh. "Mage, that is lying by omission."

"In Tevinter, our word for truth also doubles as our word for silence. Ignorance is the fault of no man, save himself. Besides," Verinius closed his eyes, "they would have died eventually - and that dying would have been a slow, painful agony. Surely it is better to let these volunteers die quickly thinking that they were going to serve a greater cause than themselves beside their brothers and sisters, rather than letting them languish on a battlefield sick and alone?"

Brun grimaced and shook his head. To Verinius, he looked very old and tired.

"I," he said slowly, "need time to think on this. I will send in Vhena and Freya to attend to our newest recruits."

"Brun..."

Something in Verinius's voice made Brun halt from his march to the door, and he turned to look behind his shoulder at the mage who looked visibly frightened. "What is it, Verinius?"

"Vhena calls the half-men the 'darkspawn.' It is her translation of a Wilder word that they took from the dwarves. Though we have called them half-men, they are not. They are creatures alien to this world." His narrow face looked gaunt in the shadows of the room, like some ancient wraith. "I have seen them in battle, as have you. You and I both know how they fight: without concern or care. If there is a wall too high, they will throw themselves upon it and die, creating a pile of bodies for their fellows to climb upon. They will spread across the world and make it black with their poison. They will overrun Minrathous and Hossberg if we do not stop them. But we cannot do that if we live by the rules of mortal men and its society. We are not men, Brun. We never were. If a thousand must die so that a million might live, it must be so. If men must die to swell our ranks, then it must be so."

"Victory at all costs," Brun said slowly, and his lips pursed when he saw the mage nod.

"It is what we must pay for our power," Verinius replied quietly, "for nothing comes without a price."

"Even if that price is our very humanity, the thing that separates us from the..." he struggled to recall the term Verinius had used, "the darkspawn?"

"The only that separates us from the darkspawn is our armor and our weapons." Verinius smiled a sinister smile. "You as a solider should know that."

Brun's hands clenched into fists and he spun on his heel, marching out into the morning sunlight. What Verinius said was true: victory had to come at any cost. The...darkspawn...they did not think or feel, they were mindless in their pursuit of the living and the spread of their corruption. They would not parlay or treaty, they would go from one village to another, killing and tainting all they came across. He loathed the idea of unnecessary sacrifice, and could only pray to the Gods that all those who followed after him would cling to their honor and their sense of decency, and try to save us many people as they could before they plunged headlong into a world where one's humanity meant nothing, a world where the defeaters of the darkspawn became like the darkspawn.

Brun stalked off to one of the abandoned towers that served as Weisshaupt's watch posts. He stared out across the bleak landscape beyond the fortress, the wind snarling and shrieking like a rabid beast around him. He was chilled, though it was not from the wind. Despair coiled around his thoughts. He and the others would become the enemy in order to secure victory. Countless sacrifices would be made in the name of that victory. He knew the truth of it but his heart was dispirited by such knowledge. He stood there for hours, staring into the distance, seeing nothing but an endless war in which mankind would not survive if the Wardens did not become the things they fought. It was a bitter vision, as cold as a winter moon.

Feeling Freya's presence, he turned to look at her and yet could not meet her direct grey gaze. She moved to stand in front of him, her chestnut mane caught and blown by the sharp wind. Without speaking, she took his hand in one of hers and placed it over her heart before resting a gentle hand over his heart.

"I, Freya of Clan Closivar and Second to the First Warden, pledge to you that whatever dark thoughts you share will remain within my heart. But you must speak them, Brun the Wolf, First of the Grey Wardens, for if you do not they will devour you as surely as the half-men devour the land."

He found himself telling her all the things that laid his spirits low and when he was done, her hand still over his heart, she nodded. Tilting her head, she studied him and he felt stripped of all his defenses under her penetrating stare.

"A swaggering and arrogant man Verinius may be, but his words are truly spoken. We must do whatever it takes to defeat this scourge, my Wolf. If we become what we must defeat, so be it. If many die in order to achieve victory, so be it. This you know, I feel it in your heart. But you can't do it alone. I am Second to the First Warden and it is my duty to assist in all ways. Do not shut me out."

"Would you give up your blood for this? Give up your humanity for this? Is it right to ask it of others?"

"You are not asking, Brun the Wolf. I offer and men will volunteer because they would rather die fighting on their feet than perish cowering in their beds. I have seen this, as have you. If they die, it will be by their choosing and it will not be your burden to carry. There are enough burdens in your heart without your taking on more. Tell me what must be done and I will gladly do it."

He started to protest and she moved her hand up to his lips, pressing firmly. His eyes widened and the constriction around his heart eased. "I agree," he said, a hint of a smile coming upon him unbidden. She returned his smile and lowered her fingers.

After that day, Freya added her blood to his in order for Verinius to create more of the Joining mixture.

* * *

><p><em>The secrets of the Joining have now been revealed...how will Alistair react!<em>

_The story continues in Chapter 5!_

_Thanks go out to Lisa, Josie, Cloud, and Rose! Thank you, ladies, for following along! It means a lot to us.  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**_  
><em>

"Did Verinius really only take seven days to create the Joining ritual?" asked Alistair. He was clearly bewildered that the Grey Wardens most secret of rituals had taken only one week to discover and put into practice, and even more perplexed by the smile Duncan was wearing.

"He did." Duncan' scratched absently at his beard with his callused fingertips. "It is amazing what can be done in seven days."

"You could climb all the stairs in the Imperial Palace," Riordan grinned, "right up to the highest point in Tevinter. You could also read through a quarter of the Orlesian royal library."

"Since when can you read?" Duncan's tone was teasing, and upon hearing it, Riordan placed a swarthy hand to his chest.

"You are so cruel, Duncan. And so thankless. Was it not I who taught you your letters?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, that was Mysha."

"Ah, Mysha." Riordan gave a content sigh. "A better teacher one could not ask for."

"Let me guess," Alistair said dryly, "she was a woman you were chasing after?"

"Duncan does prefer older women," Riordan flashed his teeth at Alistair, "it is true."

"She was a Grey Warden mage," Duncan explained. "And," he shot Riordan a serious look, "_not _important to the story."

"But griffons," Riordan wagged a finger at Duncan, "are very important. Come, Duncan, tell Alistair about Vhena and the griffons, and how she taught the first of the Grey Wardens to fly. After all, they must have been doing something while Verinius worked, yes?"

Duncan opened his mouth to speak, and then paused as an owl shrieked in the darkness. When its cry had disappeared, he began the tale again. "As you know, Vhena was of the Wilder tribes. She had come to Weisshaupt as a young woman, fleeing with her family to escape the darkspawn. The Wilder, beyond being talented with their bows, were also known for their creations. Vhena was part of this long legacy, and even amongst the craftsmen of her tribe it was said that she had a mind for creation. She was considered a dreamer amongst her people, because she longed for the gift of flight. Out of twigs and scraps of leather she would create contraptions that caught air currents, flying as swift and true as an arrow."

Riordan could not help himself from adding: "and this is also why she was so good with a bow, Alistair. She had a mind for flight and the wind. When she released an arrow, she became that arrow."

Alistair blushed hotly against the fire, remembering his earlier attempts at trying to aim Riordan's longbow. He had failed miserably, missing each shot and nearly shooting Duncan's eye out (he had never seen Duncan move so fast, not even in battle). "I'm not really interested in flying," Alistair mumbled. "I like it right here on the ground."

"So did Brun," Duncan said kindly. "Vhena's desire for the sky oft brought her to the highest levels of Weisshaupt Fortress. There amidst the wind and the snow she came to know Weisshaupt's oldest residents: the griffons. Most of the refugees in Weisshaupt considered the griffons a dangerous, pest and dared not venture into the upper levels where they nested. Those who went too high often never returned, or came back seriously injured, mauled by beaks and talons. This did not deter, Vhena, however, and she regularly made the climb. It was she who learned the art of griffon taming, and it was through her diligent instruction that other Grey Wardens learned the art..."

* * *

><p>The topmost levels of Weisshaupt Fortress glittered in snow-white majesty against the pre-dawn sky. Just ahead, a rivulet of water sprang from frost-rimed rock. The silvered froth tumbled eagerly downwards - like the pale glisten of Vhena's breath in the frosty morning. An encircling arc of mountains brooded in monumental indifference. The Wilder Elf half-dragged, half-carried what appeared to be a large, dun-colored triangle. Taut rigging contributed a harsh whisper. A poem of intricate bindings and flexible strength, it was a framework of ironbark held together with animal glue and wings of the same cloth and water-resistant wax as the sails of their aravels. Vhena had first dreamed of flight among her own people, ignoring those who looked askance at such new-fangled notions. She had started small: easy slopes, soft snow to fall in. Today she would fly free, swallow-like grace shimmering in winter silence.<p>

Dawn touched the mountain-tops in a wash of rose and gold: a dancing curtain that veiled the sun's searing light, transmuted it to grace and delicacy. It seemed the very touch of the Creators' fingers. Vhena had been raised on stories of how contact with shems had stolen the Elven immortality; but Myrhela had told her that perhaps it was simply that there was a time for everything - to be born and to die, to remember the past and adapt to the future. Deft, long-fingered hands criss-crossed with bow scars strapped the rigging around her body. Billowing, arrowhead sleek, the wings caught the air-currents and sped her steps toward the ledge. To Vhena this moment was always like being born from one life into another. So must the arrow feel as it leaves the bow! She had nearly completed her run - nearly plunged downward off the mountainside - when a gentle chuckle resounded through her mind:

_And how will you land it?_

Vhena skidded to a stop, arms windmilling as she tried to counter-balance the weight of the rigging. Awkwardness marred her usual lithe grace. Startled, she looked around: these were not her own thoughts. Nor the whispering of the dark half-men that scratched at her brain like a cat sharpening its claws. Who had spoken?

She turned - and found herself face to face with a pair of enormous golden eyes, luminous with intelligence, their dancing lights half-hidden in lustrous darkness. The white-feathered griffon was watching her struggles, head cocked in an attitude of quizzical amusement. The wonder of the discovery overshadowed everything. She struggled out of the harness, hand outstretched, simply desiring to touch a creature of such beauty. Those golden eyes fixed on hers - steadfast, unwavering - and Vhena had the sense she was walking into them. Then the griffon dipped its head, and lowered its wings in invitation.

"Do you want me to…"

The griffon chirped and nudged her - as clear a challenge as Vhena had ever heard. Shaking in excitement and fear, the Elf put trembling hands upon the snowy-white feathers of the long, graceful neck and jumped easily, gently, onto its back. She slid her knees beneath the griffon's wings and wrapped sinewy arms around the neck; blended her body to the hammering beat of its flight. The wings lifted. The feathers whispered. The thin air attenuated the pounding of its feet. An alien heart-beat joined her own - her head spun with images, memories, wisdom not her own. Bonded for life, she whooped aloud in sheer delight at her defeat, her victory - felt herself lifted and taken out of her mortal body, her soul washed pure in that great aerial bath.

_Each moment free from fear makes an Elf immortal…_

Vhena hunched close against the griffon's neck. The wind fluttered her hair behind her. It felt like knives of fire flaying her bare arms, cut through the hide of her tunic - but she was too excited to feel the cold. She laughed in sheer abandon - a paean of delight, excitement, life - tingling all over with a wild, strange, sweet sense of exultation. The sky was bathed in a frozen whirlwind of unearthly hues; the sunlight bled across clouds in gauzy reddish curtains. Beyond the mountains lay a cloak of trees, darkly green - then miles and miles of open ground polluted by leprous patches of taint. Death glistened upon the land like grey glass. Sharp, piercing pain stabbed her. She thought of oil on water - the way it spread and spread, wringing color from above and below, altering everything it touched.

_What is this shadow on your mind?_

Vhena shook her head, unwilling to answer, but images, memories, knowledge fell from her like beads from a broken necklace.

The griffon dipped one wing, banked, and turned. The mountain ledge tilted towards her. The wings beat in powerful downstrokes, cupping the wind. He reached for the land - touching into a gallop, half-running, half-gliding. They came to a stop. He ruffled his wings and folded them against his sides, cupping Vhena's legs with the warmth of the snowy feathers. Vhena slid from his back. Her knees shook and she shivered. She hugged the pearly neck, laughing and crying at the same time.

After that, Vhena came to the aerie as often as she could. She told no-one of the joy and wonder of her communion, hugged it to herself like a secret treasure. She came up to communicate, to dream - and to fly. In time, her companion gave her his name - or its equivalent. He understood her language far better than she his. Others of his kind grew to trust her too. But when he asked to help against the darkness that crawled at the edges of the land, narrowing and narrowing like the tightening of a noose, she shook her head. She could not bear to think of these beautiful creatures sickened or made sterile by the corruption.

_We cannot remain untouched forever. It will poison our hunting grounds too…_

At last, the bitter knowledge that he was right drove Vhena to consider ways in which they might hunt the darkspawn together. Close combat was out of the question - they would sicken and die. A lance or spear could only be used once. So the glider's rigging was adapted to a harness, and she crafted saddles such as Freya's people used. She had meant to wield the bows of Elvenkind - but found the draw harshly reined in by the arc of the wings. The short-bows of Clan Closivar proved more effective .Vhena remembered her mother's words. There was a time to cling to tradition and a time to adapt.

For the pull in her blood - for her brothers' lives tapering to the grave - for the dying land - she went to speak to Brun and Freya about their new allies.

For life.

* * *

><p>Freya listened to the muted chirring lilt of the griffon's song and smiled before whistling in reply. His snowy white head cocked to one side and he stilled, his feathers ruffling at her song. She reached out a hand, unhurried and gentle, to rub the spot above his golden beak, as Vhena had taught her. The griffon let out a low whistle and unfurled his wings in invitation. Continuing her calming whistle, Freya reached for the saddle and harness and gently set them in place on the majestic creature's back.<p>

"You are doing well, Barbarian, but do not think you have won his heart just yet," Vhena rebuked, but not unkindly.

Freya turned to look at the elf too quickly and her movement upset the griffon. His wings caught the wind and nearly knocked her over. She watched in frustration as the griffon took several hopping steps away before taking flight. The saddle and harness fell to the earth with a loud thud. The griffon seemed to laugh at her with his "kak-kak-kak" calling down at her. She whistled again, soft and low, for his ears alone and the griffon, gliding on the air currents, slowly returned to the earth.

"Just as they mate for life, they will only ever allow one rider. If you think you are the master of such a creature, he will prove you wrong," Vhena whispered, coming to stand beside Freya, who towered over the delicately built elf. "You must name him. If he accepts the name, he will be yours for as long as you both live. Should you perish, he will not allow a new rider."

Freya was not sure how Vhena came into such knowledge of the griffons. Perhaps the rumors were true and Vhena had learned the language of the graceful eagle-lion beasts. Such a thing would not surprise Freya for there was much of Myrhela's mysticism in the young Wilder elf. She was gifted in the ways of the animals. She said it gave aid to her prowess with her bow.

Clan Closivar considered griffons sacred protectors from evil. Her clan shaman told of the power it had to heal. It was said just one feather from a griffon could restore sight to the blind. The goldenback griffon was the most common, according to lore and the snowy griffon and ebony griffon the rarest. She stared at her griffon, with its snowy white head and lean golden brown body as it stood patiently waiting for his name, his liquid black eyes unblinking. Freya wanted to convey all these things in a name and finally decided that such a name would be long and impossible to pronounce.

"Orvyn," Freya called, whistling three high, strong notes. The griffon came to her outstretched hand and blew gently, tickling her palm with his warm breath. "In my language it means brave friend," she explained to Vhena, whose tattoos were furrowed by her unspoken question.

Once again slipping the saddle across the broad back of the griffon, Vhena's whispered instructions in her ear, Freya secured the saddle and harness on Orvyn and when she was sure he was comfortable with the weight of both, she prepared to mount her griffon for the first time. She glanced at the others and any nerves she was experiencing melted away.

Dynal was sitting in the dirt, staring at his griffon who was scolding him in a high, shrill whistle, beak pecking at the ground beside the red haired giant. Freya hid her smile behind her gloved hand. Dynal was loud and good tempered but impatient and the griffon was agitated by his impatience. Vhena left her side to help settle the goldenback griffon.

Verinius was staring with great disdain at the ebony griffon before him. It amused her to see that he had chosen the only griffon with the unusual glossy black wings and back; a perfect match to the mage's own dark locks. He was a man with more vanity than any woman she had ever met. A snicker escaped unbidden as she watched the handsome mage dust off his pristine robes and brush his palms together. He who thought he could do anything and everything could not get his griffon to settle.

Across from them, standing on a step and shading his eyes, was Brun, his dark hair glinting with silver strands in the bright sunlight. He insisted that his officers learn to ride first and then he would learn with a small group of the new recruits. She sent him a warm smile, sending a wave of reassurance flowing from her blood to his. He was frowning. Again. Or still. It mattered little for it was a look he wore habitually now. In the past weeks he had done little else but train the new recruits, frown, growl like a wounded wolf and fall onto his bedroll exhausted each night.

She knew the minute he felt her reassurance. A rare smile drifted across his face before his frown settled into place again. He would have to learn that they were there to help him and that he need not take all the burdens upon his shoulders. If there was one thing they argued about it was the amount of responsibility he took for himself when he had those who were willing to share the burdens of command.

Freya returned to the task at hand. With slow and measured movements, she slipped into the saddle and gathered the reins. "We fly, Orvyn," she instructed and with a mighty beat of wings, the griffon pushed away from the earth on his strong hind legs and his wings caught a fresh current. Freya's heart leapt within her and her shout of triumphant laughter trailed behind her as griffon and rider soared into the bright blue skies.

The wind whipped around her, cool and sweet, as Orvyn's wings beat the air with graceful strokes. Freya pulled gently on the reins, learning to guide the griffon. She leaned forward, lowering her head to rest her cheek along his feathered neck. "Orvyn, brave friend of Freya. We shall show the darkspawn that we can't be defeated!"

Banking, gliding, climbing and twisting, her griffon demonstrated his abilities to a pleased crowd that gathered below. Freya circled above the group, in no hurry to return to earth for there was a grace and a sense of peace in flying on the back of the majestic creature that she was reluctant to give up. There was none of the motion of horseback riding, but there were occasional dips that made her stomach flutter and tickle. Once, as if sensing she was becoming too confident, Orvyn tipped sharply toward the ground and she let out a sharp command, fearing she would fall out of her saddle and plummet to her death. She was sure he was laughing at her when he let out a sustained sharp whistle.

Finally, coming to a gentle landing in the field, she dismounted. Before joining her comrades, she petted Orvyn and rubbed the soft feathers above his beak. In her entire life, Freya had never felt such unrestrained joy and freedom. She ran to Brun, who had moved from the step to the edge of the field. Reaching up, she placed her hands on his shoulders and laughed, her face upturned, her eyes seeking his.

"In war, victory," she breathed and let her joy wash over him like a spring rain.

In the following weeks the Grey Wardens learned the art of griffon riding and archery. Vhena wanted them to be able to use bows accurately from their mounts. Vhena's gift with the griffons was second only to her gift with a bow and she worked diligently with the officers, walking the line and issuing terse commands.

When the Wilder huntress was satisfied with their archery skills and their flying skills, she worked with them to excel at doing both together. They nearly lost Dynal the first day of training when he leaned too far out of the saddle in order to hit his target. It was only the skill of the griffon that saved him.

A day came several weeks later when Vhena smiled solemnly and told them they were ready to train recruits. Brun came and clapped a hand on Freya's shoulder and his rare smile lit up not just his face but his eyes. It was then that Freya realized she had come to care deeply for the Wolf.

They gathered around the bonfire that night to celebrate the end of their training. Dynal brought out a flask of whiskey and passed it around. Freya shook her head when he offered it to her. If she drank she was afraid Brun would know her heart and she didn't want that, would not put him in such a position. He was married to Katrin of the River and Freya would not dishonor the woman. Neither could she stay at the fire, so close to Brun she could smell his earthy, musky scent.

Wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, she walked briskly in the direction of the southern gates and passed through them, calling out a friendly greeting to the guards there, both men of the Tasivar clan. They raised their voices in good cheer as she walked by them and she heard their laughter following her as she made her way down the hill to a small tjorn. Weisshaupt Fortress, starkly white in the moonlight, rose like a pale spectre behind her. Around her were the constant chirrup of crickets and the deeper mewl of mountain cats. A light wind, cool and sweet, rippled the waters of the small lake. Her thoughts calmed and steadied.

There was so much to do and so little time in which to do it. Only a foolish woman would worry about a man in such a time. Freya had not believed herself to be a foolish woman and yet she felt a need to be with Brun, that deep primitive need that drove sensible thoughts away and pulled hotly at the blood. Her elation from earlier in the day drained away from her, leaving her melancholy. She would not dishonor Katrin but she wanted to, by the Gods, she wanted to.

She felt a stirring in her blood, the song of strength and promise that was unique to Brun. She tensed and refused to turn around, keeping her eyes on the moon-dappled tjorn. "Do you wish something, Brun the Wolf?" she asked quietly.

"You."

Such a simple word and yet it encompassed so much. Freya's heart stuttered and marched on loudly in her chest. She was sure the entire fortress could hear the thudding of it as it banged against its confines.

"I will not dishonor your wife or your vows, Brun. I would not think you capable of it either."

"There is no dishonor, Freya. Katrin long has known me and knew when I left I would not return to the farm. She understood this duty I feel is one I cannot foreswear. We untied the knots of our handfasting and bind each other no longer."

Understanding came to Freya in a rush. His anger and gruffness when they had departed his farm, the distance and coolness with her during their journey all made sense. He had been mourning his old life and she had been a constant reminder of what he had given up. She should have known, she should have sensed those feelings and given him support. A sigh escaped, long and soft, captured by the gentle breeze.

"I will not deter you from your duty, Brun. Nor will I allow you to deter me from mine. I cannot foreswear it either. We stand here as something greater than ourselves and we must not waver from the course we follow."

Still she would not look at him. She knew him in her dreams and her waking moments. Tall and muscled, dark haired with silver streaking it, blue eyes the color of a mountain tarn, a smile too long absent, a voice deep and strong and proud, oft times gruff. She did not have to look at him to appreciate his presence.

"What of Arnot?"

A flicker of emotion reached out to touch her blood. He grieved for her losses, for the loss of her clan and her husband. She let his grief flow into her blood but there was none of her own lingering grief within her. She had long since mourned for those lost to her. They resided in the Fields, the Gods watching them and granting them a joy that had not been found in life. Her clan would be there when her time came, waiting to embrace their sister.

"Arnot has been gone these many months, my Wolf. He shall not come between us, nor will he interfere with my duty. We have a tradition amongst my clan. When warriors prepare for battle, we cleanse ourselves, freeing ourselves of all earthly encumbrances so we can fight with a true heart, without fear of death. Our titles, our loved ones, our homes are all shed from us in the ceremony and so it was for me before Arnot sickened. The creature that died in my arms that night was not Arnot. My husband died in the battle for Auchmoran three months earlier."

Freya turned at last, looking at Brun the Wolf, standing proudly before her in the light cast by the full moon. He was a warrior, with a warrior's build and a warrior's heart. His scars came from long years of fighting and he wore them with dignity. The silver in his hair gleamed in the moonlight, strands burnished brightly against his dark locks. She reached out tentative fingers and let them linger on his strong cheekbones.

"I…" Brun began but Freya moved her fingers and pressed them against his lips, a smile lighting her face.

"I know, Brun," she whispered. Removing her fingers, she leaned forward, lightly brushing her lips against his. She knew his heart for it was the heart that beat within her as well. It was the song in their blood that spilled between them and spoke for them.

He pulled away and stared at her, his expression solemn. Freya waited calmly, her answer already prepared. "I am old; I have children your age, Freya. You are young and yet may have children. You do not want them with an old man and I do not want more children."

Out in the gloom of the forest she heard the low, long howl of a wolf and she smiled again. "You are old and worn. You have nothing to offer me. These are things you think, my Wolf. They are not things I think. I believe only that your heart speaks to mine. Your blood sings to me, sweet and soft, even when I sleep.

"You believe I am too young but I stopped being a child when I took my place as a warrior in my twelfth summer. I am not young, no seasoned warrior is. You know this to be true for you have seen it on the battlefield.

"You do not want more children and I cannot bear child…" but her words were cut off by the urgency of Brun's lips moving along hers, demanding her passion. She gave it willingly.

* * *

><p><em>We're thrilled to bits that the story has been enjoyable thus far! We're not too far from the end now. :)<em>


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**_  
><em>

"How many griffon riders were there? What did the griffons eat? I wonder what happened to make the griffons disappear? When did they first ride into battle on their griffons?"

Riordan was laughing at the eager and impatient young man, now sitting cross-legged, wide-eyed with excitement. "Ah, the impatience of youth," the Warden teased.

As Riordan was the most impatient man Duncan had ever known, he smirked at his friend before poking at the dying fire with a long stick. Embers caught on the wind to ride up into the darkness and he watched them disappear before turning to the eager young man.

"They fought many skirmishes in the months that followed their training, killing hundreds of darkspawn and losing no Wardens. It was whispered throughout Weisshaupt that the Grey Wardens could not be defeated but there would come a day when that would be tested." Duncan paused and stroked his beard, looking to his fellow Warden to continue the story.

"Aye, lad, the first true test of the Grey Wardens came almost exactly two years after Brun the Wolf and Freya the Fierce first entered Weisshaupt. In those two years, repairs were made to the fortress. The soldiers and Wardens had made it safe to live outside the gates of the fortress. The town was being rebuilt and people grew confident that they would always be protected," Riordan added. He stopped and took a long pull from his waterskin.

"There were fifty-eight Wardens by then and over two hundred soldiers who swore to fight with them and die if necessary to ensure the Grey Wardens continued on. Another four hundred soldiers swore to defend Weisshaupt from invaders, whether they be soldiers of the Imperium or the darkspawn," Duncan continued, taking up the story.

"You need to breathe, lad," Riordan cut in and Alistair blinked, blushing as he took a deep breath. Both older men laughed at Alistair's youthful exuberance. Riordan picked up the tale once more.

"Now, there came a day when two Warden scouts returned from a weeklong trip and the news they brought with them was grim. They had been as far west as Nordbotten and on their return they discovered a long black trail of darkspawn marching towards the city. The Battle of Nordbotten was the first time anyone outside of Weisshaupt witnessed the Grey Wardens in action.

"And what a sight to behold. Brun the Wolf, First Warden, astride a golden griffon, leading the charge. Freya the Second at his side..."

* * *

><p>Scouts brought word to the First Warden, as Brun was now called, that a large horde of the darkspawn was marching toward the city of Nordbotten. By their reckoning there were over three thousand of the half-men in the horde, possibly as many as four thousand. Nordbotten would fall to the horde unless the Grey Wardens acted quickly.<p>

"How long before they reach the city?" Brun asked quietly. His mind was already working on the logistics of getting his army to the city in time. The griffon riders, thirty strong, could be there within three days, the horse soldiers in seven, but the main body of the army would take two weeks of forced marching to get there.

"Ten days, maybe less."

"They march on the surface? They are emboldened by their victories in the south. Shall we let them taste defeat?" Dynal sneered, his scarred face twisted and dark.

"We can send the troops through the Deep Roads," Garn, their first dwarf Warden, interjected. "It will cut days off the march."

"Not if they encounter darkspawn on the way. It will slow them down."

"There is the same chance on the surface, First Warden," Garn reminded Brun.

"How many troops are in Nordbotten now?" Freya asked and the fear in her was shared by those gathered in the First Warden's pavilion.

"There are five hundred soldiers garrisoned in the city and another two hundred in the surrounding villages," the scout replied.

"Muster the troops. I will address them in one hour," Brun ordered, his expression sober. He glanced at Freya, could feel her fear slowly replaced with resolve. "Senior Wardens report back here in thirty minutes to discuss the war plans."

"In war, victory," she said, voice steady. She smiled, bright and warm. "In death, sacrifice."

Brun reached out with his rough, calloused fingers and brushed his fingertips softly along her cheekbones. He hoped she could hear his heart because he found he could not speak any words. She nodded once and left, allowing him privacy to collect his thoughts.

Thirty minutes later, maps spread across the desk, he looked up at his senior Wardens. Verinius wore his habitual smirk, his handsome face showing no signs of concern. Dynal was stoic and the scars that marred his face reflected a warrior's heart. Vhena was calm; her eyes clear of troubled thoughts. Freya, tall and proud and fierce, stood by his side. Their confidence in him calmed his own worries.

"Freya, you are to leave within the hour. Push hard, I want you in Nordbotten within two days. You are to give this letter to Captain Fogel and ensure he carries the orders out to the letter. He is to evacuate the villagers to Nordbotten and recall all the troops. I want one hundred of his men and the two hundred soldiers from the villages to remain in Nordbotten. He has one week to accomplish this. He is to close the gates as soon as he and the remaining troops leave the city."

Brun paused and looked down at the map where a number of marks indicated troop placements. "The darkspawn approach from the south, along the Haltenfluss. Have his men take up position on the western bank, just south of Sedeles Lake. Our horse soldiers will flank from the east, supported by half the foot soldiers. The other foot soldiers are to be placed in reserve, just north of the lake. They are to stand their ground should the spawn make it that far. The griffon riders will approach from the south and with luck push the soulless spawn into Sedeles Lake. We must take out their leaders first. I'll take five riders and harry the vanguard. Their leaders should be there. We must stop them before they reach Nordbotten," Brun finished, his mouth drawn down in a tight, grim line.

"Will the foot soldiers arrive in time?" Freya asked, giving voice to the question they all wanted an answer to.

"Garn and Tyrill will lead them. They will enter the Deep Roads just east of the Hunterhorn Mountains and emerge here," Brun said, pointing to a spot west of the range near The Merdaine Steppes.

"Will they be safe in the Deep Roads?" Dynal asked.

"Creators willing. I will speak with Myrhela of this plan. She will know," Vhena answered and they trusted in her words.

"Where will we muster?"

"Here, at the southeastern tip of the lake. Freya, you will choose three riders to meet you there in three days. I will take the rest of the riders and meet you there in five days time. Once you are sure Captain Fogel is following his orders, you and your three riders will hunt for darkspawn scouting parties and ensure they do not return to the main body of the horde with any reports of our activities. I will have three griffon riders traveling escort for the horse soldiers and three riding escort for the foot soldiers. One from each group will travel between the mustering point and their group, to report the progress of the troops. The bulk of the riders will stay with me."

Brun took a deep breath and pushed a hand through his silvered black hair. "If the foot soldiers don't arrive in time we will engage the darkspawn without them. We can't allow the horde to enter the city. We will hold the line until the last darkspawn falls or we will die trying. Victory will be ours," he finished.

"So say you, Brun the Wolf, so say we all! Victory will be ours!" Freya cheered and the others joined in. The fellowship of the Warden brothers and sisters calmed Brun's churning thoughts.

Once he was sure his senior Wardens understood their respective roles, he stepped out of his tent to address the troops. Looking out at the sea of faces, he felt a great stirring of pride in the men and women who stood before him. Volunteers, all of them; fiercely dedicated to protecting the lives of the innocents. Some might not make it back, some might not even make it to the battle, but they would all die trying and he couldn't ask for more than that.

"We march to Nordbotten to defend the city against a horde of darkspawn. Now is the time the world will know of the Grey Wardens and those who march with the Wardens. Your courage will inspire more who will follow in your footsteps but you will always be the first of your kind and you must take pride in that honor.

"We few, who give up everything to protect the lands of man and all those who inhabit those lands, will be victorious. We will do whatever is it takes to achieve that victory, by any means necessary, no matter the cost. I know we will win this battle for the men and women who stand before me are the bravest, finest soldiers I have ever commanded.

"In war, victory!" Brun cried and felt the truth of the words in his heart.

"So say you, First Warden, so say we all!" Dynal shouted, his scarred face lit with the inner fire of his warrior's heart.

A roar filled the air as the assembled men and women took up the call to a steady drumbeat of fists pounding chests in salute. Brun felt the burning pride of a father, a soldier, a commander...a Grey Warden.

An hour later found Brun standing beside Freya. Her long chestnut curls were pulled back and braided. She wore her dark, oiled leathers and fur lined cloak. Her gleaming short sword and dagger were sheathed at her waist and a finely made shortbow was slung on her back. She was ready and the most capable warrior he had ever known. He believed in her and hoped she knew it. She would need all her courage in the coming days.

"I will not let you down, Brun the Wolf," she promised confidently.

"I do not doubt your words, Freya the Fierce, last of Clan Closivar."

Brun leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. She slipped strong arms around his waist and held on to him. For long moments they were silent. He drew strength from her presence and she from his. It would be a long five days for both of them, he knew. They had grown used to sharing their thoughts in the silence between them when they reached out through the song in their blood that had first united them.

"You reside in my heart," she whispered and kissed him softly.

"As you reside in mine. Travel swiftly and I will see you in five days, the Gods willing."

She nodded and turned away to mount but then swung around again. Her grey eyes were luminous with tears that trembled on her lashes but did not fall. Brun was thankful for that mercy. She leaned into him and kissed him fiercely, her lips bruising his. Then she stepped back and mounted her griffon.

"In war, victory!" she cried out.

He watched until she was a small dark spot in the endless blue sky.

* * *

><p>"And?" Alistair asked breathlessly. He was leaning forward, his mouth open and eyes wide.<p>

"And what? I'm hungry, Duncan, aren't you?" Riordan asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"I find I am, my friend. I'll put some water on to boil and we'll have some cheese and apples before we turn in. Alistair, aren't you hungry?" Duncan asked the crestfallen young man.

"I - but - you can't stop there! What happened?" Alistair spluttered in protest.

Riordan winked at Duncan, who busied himself with making tea to hide his answering smirk.

"Ah lad, surely you've heard the tales? There is no need for me to repeat them," Riordan said smugly, sitting back on his heels and slicing into a bright red apple with his knife. He offered a slice to Alistair.

"Please,_ pleeaaase _finish the story," Alistair begged before stuffing the entire slice into his mouth.

Riordan threw his head back and laughed heartily, before taking pity on the young man.

"That was a battle the bards would sing about for hundreds of years. The Wardens arrived on the backs of their griffons. The beat of the griffon's wings was louder than thunder and it gave the darkspawn pause. They say each Warden killed fifteen to twenty darkspawn for every spawn killed by the soldiers or the Nordbotten men.

"The battle raged for twenty hours and when it was over the ground was saturated with the black blood of nearly four thousand darkspawn. They say the lake turned dark that day and so it remains to this day. Not one Warden died and less than two hundred men in all died. They were victorious and it was the first of many victories to come over the next hundred years.

"As the legend of the Wardens and their victory at Nordbotten spread, hope grew among the Anderfels and beyond. People began to believe they could defeat the darkspawn once and for all. Men and supplies, tithes and land were given to the Wardens and volunteers from all over Thedas came to join the Wardens or swear fealty to the Wardens.

"What had once seemed impossible now seemed not only possible but assured. One hundred years after their victory in Nordbotten, the first Archdemon was defeated at the Battle of the Silent Plains."

Alistair spoke around a mouthful of cheese. "But what about those first Wardens? What happened to Brun the Wolf and Freya the Fierce? And Dynal Bearson? And all the others."

Riordan chortled. "How does he manage to talk with a full mouth and not choke himself?" he asked Duncan.

"It is a mystery, my old friend," Duncan answered. He stirred the glowing bed of embers and coals. "Now, we need to get to sleep. Morning will be here soon enough."

"Wait! Aren't you going to tell me about Brun and Freya and Dynal and Verinius and Vhena?" Alistair protested with a squeak in his voice.

"Those are tales for another night, Alistair. Trust me; they had many more adventures in the years that followed that first victory at Nordbotten."

Alistair's dreams that night were full of griffons and Grey Wardens.

**_The End... _**

* * *

><p><em>For now, anyway. ;) <em>

_We will likely return to play in this sandbox in the future - Brun, Vhena, Verinius, Dynal, and Freya are too compelling to let them rest on the shelf, gathering dust, for long. And, with the revelations of Dragon Age 2's DLC Legacy, there is still quite a bit of ground to cover.  
><em>

_To those of you who were curious enough to stop and read our story: thank you! We're honored that you did so. To those of you who who reviewed: you are too good to us. And if you haven't already, make sure you visit our profile and see the amazing piece of artwork Sinvraal did for this story.  
><em>

_Go now, and dream of griffons. _


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